


The Vision

by cloud_wolfbane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this world, most of the population has a soul mate. A Vision, usually given around puberty, helps mates find each other. Sherlock and John are old enough that statistics tell them their soul mate must be dead. Statistics were wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For Cloud9, who asked me to write romance.
> 
>    
> Click [here](https://kricket.tumblr.com/post/144878130980/based-off-of-the-fic-the-vision-by-cloudwolfbane) to see the wonderful fanart Kricket did for the bond mark scene. :)

Sherlock was five the first time he saw his mother’s bare wrist. She wore an intricate, white, leather band around her right wrist at all times. One morning, however, Sherlock went into her room in the early morning. 

She was sitting in her boudoir, rubbing rose scented lotion along her arms. Her right wrist had a swirl of markings looping around it in orange and peach, it would have been beautiful if not for the redness around the edges like a mosquito bite. 

“Mummy,” he called, “Does that hurt.” He reached out to touch, curious if the edges of the mark were raised, but stopped himself. 

“It’s my soul mark, love. It means I’ve met my soul mate,” she answered. 

“Father?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes, I had my Soul Vision my first year of college and met your father a few weeks later, but you are much to young to be asking such things. Why don’t you wake your brother for breakfast.” She ruffled his curls. 

Sherlock pouted, he hated being told he was too young for something, but his Mummy’s eyes looked sad, best to ask more questions later. 

Sherlock was almost ten when he had his first lesson on the Soul Vision and bond. It was also the year he learned that redness around a bond mark implied infidelity. 

Of course, by then his father had suffered a heart attack of such strength he was dead before he reached the hospital. His Mummy’s mark changed to black, and the edges reached out in black veins. 

It was then, that Sherlock decided he had no wish to have his ‘Vision’ or find his soul mate. 

Research showed that 98% of the population had a soul mate, even if 10% died before ever meeting them. To find their given soul mate, a person must first have their ‘Vision’. The ‘Vision’ aids in finding the person and once first touch is established, the soul mark forms. 

In his first study of the bonds, Sherlock thought the idea of having one perfect person for him in the world was a grand thing, but further study showed cases like his Mummy, who suffered from a weak bond. 

In fact, most of the population only had 1 to 2 level bonds. Weak bonds that only allowed the smallest bleed through of emotion in times of extreme stress. Level 3 bonds were common enough and allowed a better emotional connection. Level 4 bonds were rare and were said to actually allow telepathic conversations in close quarters. Level 5 was so rare, no one was quite certain of its appearance. 

Sherlock would not be satisfied with anything less than a level 3 bond and he knew the higher bonds required a perfect meld of traits. He was not the sort to believe such a person existed for him. 

For a time, it seemed his disinterest in bonding was in his favor. Throughout secondary school he watched his classmates receive their Visions. Some found their mates in the next classroom over and other in another school. One boy spent break finding his mate in Germany. 

In college, more and more went in search of their bonds. Marks soon appeared on more wrists than not. 

But it was fine.

It was all fine. 

At 23 Sherlock started referring to himself as a high-functioning sociopath. Sociopaths were known to have trouble bonding or lack a mate completely. This suited his purpose just fine. 

That was the same year Mycroft appeared at his door. 

He had been steadily avoiding his brother since Mycroft left home for school, but the man had a habit of showing up when he was least wanted. 

Sherlock opened the door, sweeping his gaze from top to bottom. “Gaining weight I see, the desk job must suite you,” he snarled. 

“Honestly, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, placing his hands on his ridiculous, black brolly. 

It was then that Sherlock saw it. A level 4 bond mark in dark blue with the interlocking symbols for justice and knowledge. 

“How dare you!” Sherlock felt his whole body draw up in unfettered rage. “You swore, you swore that caring isn’t an advantage.” 

“I did not lie. Caring is not an advantage, but Gregory is… Avoiding the bond after the Vision was not possible,” Mycroft attempted to look contrite, but Sherlock could see the ease of the lines around his face, he was happy. 

“Get out,” Sherlock snarled, forcing his brother from the entrance and slamming the door shut.  
He waited an hour, shaking with rage that his brother, the man that treated everyone like pawns on a world-sized chessboard, had formed a level 4 bond. 

That night, Sherlock found the dealer he had once dealt with for an experiment. He bought a bag of cocaine and spent the night making a six percent solution. He injected it into his veins still hot, enjoying the burn throughout his body. 

Cocaine was amazing; it focused the grinding whir of his thoughts, made everything sharper and brighter. Morphine helped slow everything down, brought the dangerous force of his thoughts into a manageable drone. Heroin allowed him to forget. 

The first time Sherlock met ‘Gregory’ was during a spectacular OD. He had injected a speedball; a liquid concoction of heroin and cocaine. It made his heart slow and the lights in his apartment were suddenly very bright indeed. 

He was barely breathing, when a man he didn’t recognize burst through the door. 

Even dying, Sherlock noted the familiar level four patterns on the man’s arm. 

He woke to the sharp disinfectant scent of a hospital. The constant beeping of the machinery around him seemed to burrow into his aching skull. 

“You are very lucky I keep an eye on you,” Mycroft’s smug tone sounded from the bedside. 

Sherlock turned away from him, even as the movement made his chest hurt and sent lighting strikes of pain to his brain. “Go away, Mycroft!” He would have loved to yell, but his throat was dry; leaving his voice hoarse and scratchy. 

“You can not force a Vision by risking your life, Sherlock,” Mycroft stated. 

Sherlock must have been worn out because there was little he could do to stop the stiffing of his shoulders. “I don’t have a mate, of course I wouldn’t have a Vision.”

Mycroft sighed, and blessedly left. 

The second time Sherlock met Gregory, it was all he could do not to claw the man’s eyes out. 

He sat at the side of the bed while Sherlock sweated and shivered. The man had been 35 when he had his Vision of Mycroft. He explained how he had spent the later part of his twenties convinced his mate was dead. Which was why he had entered law-enforcement, a job that was always looking for unbonded men and women. 

‘Gregory’ was actually Greg Lestrade, a detective at New Scotland Yard in the homicide division. He also promised to allow Sherlock access to his cases if Sherlock got off the drugs. He handed over a double homicide cold case for incentive. 

Sherlock would have thrown the file in his face and never spoken to the man again, but the homicide was interesting. 

It would take well into his 26th birthday before Sherlock completely cleaned his system of drugs. He would never admit it, but the cases helped. 

Being a consulting detective, having ‘The Work’, was the culmination of everything he had worked toward. He wasn’t happy, per se, but in the heat of a chase or the heart of a brilliant murder, it was a close thing. 

Which was probably why, weeks after his 30th birthday, everything changed. 

It started with the serial suicides. 

Two people, completely unconnected, committed suicide in places they had no right to be, with the same poison. It was clearly murder, but it still took Lestrade to the third suicide to come to him with the case. Even then, Mycroft’s influence was obvious. Honestly, he had no idea how Mycroft managed a level 4 bond with an idiot like Lestrade. 

Unfortunately, there was not much to go on. The serial killer had yet to make a mistake, but Sherlock knew he would. The brilliant ones always wanted to get caught. 

Allowing his mind to work on a separate problem, Sherlock spent his time in the morgue with his riding crop for an old cold case he was working on. 

He sent Lestrade a text concerning the brother and a green ladder. 

Of course, the man wanted him to come to the station and ‘explain’ his deductions. As if it wasn’t obvious. Though, Mrs. Hudson had stolen his skull, perhaps he could use Lestrade to bounce ideas off for a while. 

He grabbed a cab outside of St. Bart’s for New Scotland Yard. It only took two turns for him to note the man was not heading for the Yard. Deductions flew fast after that. He noticed the old clothes, the bit of shaving cream behind his ear, the torn photo of his children, and the distinctive bulge of a gun in his front pocket. Most of all, he noticed the single bond mark on his arm, red and raised from a broken bond with tendrils of black leaking in. 

It was broad daylight, making a place for the poisoning harder to find, but judging by the cab’s turns, they were heading for the warehouse district. 

With his phone tucked in his pocket, Sherlock composed a text by touch to Lestrade. 

When the cab stopped, Sherlock stalled. “Where are we?”

“Now, now Mr. Holmes, you know every street in London, you know exactly where we are,” the Cabbie turned in his seat, looking pleased with himself. 

“You know me, then,” Sherlock commented. He was surprised by that, while some parts of London’s underbelly knew his name, he was hardly famous, or infamous as it where. 

“Oh you’re too modest Mr. Holmes, you’ve got yourself a fan,” the man teased. 

He raised a curious brow, “Will you be introducing me?”

“I’m afraid not, no. Now, you’re going to die, Mr. Holmes,” the Cabbie opened the door, revealing his gun. 

Sherlock noticed the fake immediately. “A gun shot seems a sad substitute for a man that makes his victims kill themselves.” 

The man lowered the gun, “Yes, well we haven’t gotten to the fun part yet. First we have to set the stage.”

The Cabbie was leading him into a nearby warehouse when the police rounded the corner. 

Sherlock rounded on the man, knocking the fake gun from his hand and bringing him to his knees with a well-placed kick. 

A constable cuffed the Cabbie, while Lestrade looked Sherlock over. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, not even a scratch,” Sherlock huffed; he was rather disappointed, really. This case had contained none of the rapid -fire deductions or chases through London that he preferred. He had basically stumbled onto the killer, how anticlimactic. 

“Lucky you recognized him for what he was,” Lestrade remarked, leading him over to the huddle of police cars. 

“Of course he did, the Freak knows his own,” Sally commented, coming over with Anderson. 

With Sherlock’s usual luck, Mycroft was there as well, leaning on his brolly by Lestrade’s cruiser. 

Mycroft sent Sally a sharp look, but did not comment, he had learned long ago that it was best to let Sherlock handle his own verbal battles - most of them anyways. “Another case solved.” Mycroft looked smug, as always, like he expected Sherlock would eventually cave to taking government work, foolishness. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort of deductions at the mass of imbeciles surrounding him, when pain shot through his chest. He cried out, falling to his knees at the burn tearing up his shoulder. His left leg was on fire, everything was wrong. His heart was pounded, adrenaline pumping his system even as he struggled to breathe. 

Then, everything went black. 

When the pain subsided, Sherlock was still surrounded by blackness, but he could see Lestrade, Mycroft, Sally, and Anderson around him. 

Lestrade offered him a hand up, and for once Sherlock took it. While the pain in his body was now a dull roar, he was shaking all over. 

The darkness around them seemed to shudder as a static voice buzzed around them. “Evac! Evac! Medic down, requesting immediate extraction from hot zone!”

Suddenly, the darkness burst with light, too bright sunlight filling the area, accompanied by the scent of dust, blood, and gunpowder. Oppressive heat rushed in, searing London-bred skin. 

Sherlock’s mind must not have been functioning properly, because it took an embarrassing amount of time to realize what was happening. He was the only unbonded in the group, this was his Vision; a Vision shared with four of the worst possible people, fantastic. 

When the Vision settled, Sherlock found himself standing behind three British soldiers in full battle gear. Judging by the gear and the location, they were either in Iraq or Afghanistan. 

The men were huddled behind a broken concrete wall and a pile of rubble. They weren’t shooting, but the surrounding area occasionally exploded with distant IED blasts. Whoever they were fighting, was closing in fast. 

Less then fifty yards away, a soldier cried out for help. He was dressed in the same British gear, unable to move do to the complete loss of his left leg. He was reaching out, crying for help. His sleeve slipped to reveal a Level four bond mark in dark green. 

Behind the wall, the smallest of the men was being held back. “You can’t go out there Captain, you won’t be able to bring him back in time.”

“I have to help him, what about Julie,” the man tugged against the hold. When it still did not budge, he spun on the officer restraining him and knocked the arm away. “I will not leave him,” he snarled, before scrabbling up the wall. 

He reached the wounded soldier just as insurgents came up the hill. 

The men wore no uniforms, just a mess of shirts, jeans, and cloths protecting their mouth and nose against the dust. 

The soldiers behind the wall laid down suppressive fire, but their aim was way off in an attempt to not hit their comrades. 

The Captain pulled a Browning from his side holster and took aim. It was like watching a lion on the prowl. His hands were steady, his gaze fierce. The Captain shot five times and five men dropped with bullets in their brains. 

Sherlock watched, fascinated. 

In the end, it was the sixth man that got them. Pulling up late behind his comrades, a sixth man rose over the hill as the Captain was distracted pulling the wounded into a fireman’s carry. He aimed his AK-47 and shot. 

Three shots from the soldiers behind the wall brought the sixth man down, but not before the other bullet had burned its way through the Captain’s shoulder. 

Sherlock yelled, rushing forward to help what he knew was an illusion. 

Lestrade’s firm hand kept him back. “Shh, Sherlock there’s nothing you can do, just watch okay, just watch. 

“John, I need to… John needs me,” Sherlock was shaking and he had no idea where the name came from, but it was the right one. His brave, little soldier was named John. 

Another man rose from behind the wall, his tag claiming him as Murray. He pulled John and the other back behind the wall, while another man radioed for help. 

Murray spent time on the man missing his leg, first. He pressed a compress bandage against the stub and wrapped it up tight before securing a strange, black tourniquet further from the wound. 

When he turned to John, he shoved more of the packaged bandages in his wound, and wrapped the whole thing in a green cloth that looked like something straight out of WWII. 

John was panting, struggling for breath. 

Sherlock knew his lung was collapsing, knew his mate was bleeding out in the desert while these imbeciles did nothing. 

Thankfully, Murray leaned his ear close against the wound, and above the endless noise of the battlefield, he heard the telltale hiss of a punctured lung. “Shit,” the man cussed and dug into the pack at his side. 

He pulled out a large needle, 14 gauge, Sherlock thought. He pushed down John’s top and shoved against his vest as he felt for the second and third rib. With a jab, he shoved the needle through flesh and muscle. There was a whistle of air as pressure was released. Murray sighed in relief while he pressed a valve over the needle to keep it in and the hole open. 

Sherlock tried to memorize everything he could about both of their dirt covered faces. He knew he now owed Murray for the life of his mate. 

The helicopter landed a few yards away, far enough, that the men struggled to bring their wounded aboard. 

Sherlock watched, heart pounding, as John was loaded on board. 

His soldier was close to passing out, but he looked out at the field that almost killed him, reaching out for something that wasn’t there. Just before he was out of sight, Sherlock would swear he saw the man whisper is name. 

****

John’s family lived in a small flat in the middle of a bad neighborhood, but they were happy.

John’s Dad was a cab driver and his Mum worked as a secretary during the day and a waitress at night. The two shared a triple bond in loyal yellow. 

John was just leaving primary school when his Dad died. It was a horrible car accident. The police said he died on impact. 

The horror of the death was not enough to fell his mum, but the mark on her arm shaded with black and tendrils like veins came out of it, obscuring the once beautiful shapes. 

Mum ‘faded’ after that. Her skin grew translucent pale, her eyes smudged with lack of sleep. Worst of all, was the now endless collection of alcohol filling the flat. 

John had to watch his Mum fade. He was old enough to remember when she was warmth and love and home, but he was also young enough that he could not leave the flat as she grew to be sadness, pain, and heartache. Unlike his sister, who, at 16, fled the house after her Vision and never came back. 

John fought to be better than his broken family. In secondary school he earned top grades and attended every class, even when his mother’s drinking habits left him with little supervision. 

Some days, his mum was lucid enough to tell him he was being foolish. That he was never going to get into college, let alone become a doctor; he didn’t have the money or the intelligence to accomplish such a thing. 

John set about proving her wrong. 

He earned the grades to get into Saint Bart’s, but money did become an issue. Even with financial aid, he found himself working two separate jobs and sharing a postage stamp flat with four other people. 

He studied in between jobs and late at night, sleep became something that happened to other people. 

Joining the Army was a complete accident. By his mid-twenties, John still had not had his Vision, and was pretty sure his soul mate must have died. 

He was walking out of the hospital from an exhausting twelve hour ER shift, when the recruiter stopped him. 

“How’d you like to have someone pay off your school loans?”

John turned to face a man in military dress. He had another soldier with him and a handful of pamphlets. 

John took one because it seemed rude not too. 

The soldier grinned at him, “No bond, the service would love you. Had your Vision yet?”

John shook his head, “No, sir.”

“The Army will only take level 1 and 2 bonds or no bond at all. Those with higher bonds have to enlist with their bond mates. A young doctor like you could do well in the service,” the man remarked, showing his blank wrist. 

John looked at the soldier; he had to be at least forty, one of the sad percent of the population without a bond. He knew the Army had a high percentage of people either without a bond or a black one. 

He ended up sharing a pint with the man. His name was Sergeant Langdon, and he had spent fifteen years in the service of Queen and Country. He talked about the easy camaraderie between soldiers and how different everything could be. 

John signed up that day. He was never certain if it was the promise of danger, money, or belonging that got him to sign his name on the line.

One way or the other, John loved the Army. He had found his niche in the bloody desert of a foreign land. So, of course, that was when he had his Vision. 

They had been pulling a simple patrol of a village outside of the Kandahar province in Afghanistan when all hell broke loose. A daisy-chain of IED blasts got set off on the side of the road from a damn coke can that blended in with the rest of the trash on the street. Two of their soldiers were dead instantly, killed from shrapnel. 

Their CO was leading them to cover, when another IED took Corporal Wiggins leg. John was already behind the wall when he realized what happened. 

Wiggins was screaming for help, unable to move or crawl as his leg squirted blood. 

John couldn’t leave him there to die. Wiggins had joined the Army with his bond Julie. He was a regular scout while Julie was one of the rare female mechanics on base. It was amazing to watch them together, a quad bond so strong that they were borderline telepathic. 

John knew that the moment Wiggins died, Julie would either die instantly or, depending on how unlucky she was, linger until her heart stopped pumping. 

Watching Wiggins die in the field would be like condemning two. 

He had to struggle with his CO to get out of cover and grab Wiggins. 

Getting back to the wall, took him shooting five men in the head, and taking a shot to the shoulder, but he made it. He gave Wiggins a chance. 

Murray, their unit’s medic, saved John’s life and pulled him onto the helicopter. That was when things got strange. 

As he was pulled on the helicopter, he could have sworn he saw a man in the distance, a civilian with black hair and a long coat. “Sherlock,” he muttered, not sure where the name came from.

“What was that Captain?” Murray yelled in his ear, over the roar of the rotors. Murray strapped him into a stretcher, careful not to touch the 14-gauge needle sticking out of his chest. 

Then everything went black, but not the black of unconsciousness, John could still see Murray clearly. 

“Captain, Christ,” he cursed, rubbing his wrist where his double bond was. 

John pushed himself up, suddenly feeling fine and no longer strapped to a stretcher. “It can’t be. Now, of all times?”

Murray shrugged. 

“I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed I don’t have one.” 

“We both know that’s not true, don’t we. Its just not here, yet.”

John blinked at the words, confused as the darkness shifted into Vision. 

He was standing in a darkened swimming pool, the water reflecting off the walls. It was…eerie. 

Two men stood off to the right. One was a familiar looking man in a long coat. The other was a smaller man in an expensive suite and a smirk like a spider. 

Behind the spider were two hostages. Men tied back to back with semtex wrapped around them. Their arms were also tied together, showing matching quad bonds. 

John felt his heart skip a beat at the red sniper dots on their chests. 

“Of all the hostages you could think of, my brother and Lestrade was the best you could do?” Sherlock, his name had to be Sherlock, sneered. 

“Well I’m afraid I’ve had trouble finding Johnny boy, your mate seems to have run away. Weeeee,” the man seemed gleeful running his fingers through the air like a child. “You should be pleased he is being sensible, you hardly want to spend your life tied to some dumb soldier. What do you think that bond would have been level one, two maybe? Or were you hoping to match your brother with a four, or a legendary five, perhaps?”

Sherlock looked as calm as ever, “Well, it hardly matters now.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. I just can’t let you go on, I just can’t. So sorry,” the spider snapped his fingers and John heard the report of a sniper rifle. 

He came back to the helicopter screaming. “Sherlock!”

Murray was holding him down, pressing him into the stretcher. “Its alright mate, we’ll find him, its alright.”


	2. Chapter One

Sherlock leaned against the side of a police car. His shoulder still ached with a dull throb, but he could feel the pain fading. 

“It should not be too difficult to find him. An Army Doctor either recently or soon to be invalided home, with a gun shot wound to the shoulder,” Mycroft commented to his right. 

Sherlock scowled at him, because it seemed the correct response to Mycroft speaking, “John, his name is John.”

Mycroft rubbed his brow, “Sherlock, there is no way you could know his name, Visions don’t work like that.” 

“It was a bit strange, I’ve never known a Vision to be like that. I mean it was a whole scene,” Lestrade piped up. 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He had done some study of Visions, but they were private things. Very little was written on their actual content.

“Mine was,” Lestrade paused, glancing at his bond mate, “ Mine was nothing like that. I caught a scent of tea and tobacco, then a flash of the sign in front of the Diogenes club, and then a single glance of Mycroft’s face. That was it, mere seconds.”

Mycroft nodded his agreement, “I did not know Gregory’s name until I tracked his file.”

“Of course, he would get some weird vision of a mad soldier,” Anderson squawked. 

Sally punched him in the shoulder hard enough to hurt. “Shut up! That soldier saved a man’s life, what he did was heroic, not madness.”

Sherlock was momentarily startled by the defense, he had long ago deduced that Sally had an older brother, but had not realized the man was a soldier. Interesting. 

“His name is John. An Army Doctor and Captain. Apparently, he has a taste for danger; a doctor of such rank would not be risked on the battlefield unless he volunteered. He thinks his life is worth less than those around him, because he is not bonded. At his age, somewhere between thirty to thirty-four, he has convinced himself that his bond mate is dead. The Vision we saw was before he had his own. He loves the Army, it suits his protective nature.” Sherlock spoke in a single breath. He was unsure why he was revealing his deductions to these idiots, but a Vision was always shared with those that would help the bond mates meet. 

“I will start the search immediately, he will be found within the day, I have no doubt. “ Mycroft pulled his phone, ready to start issuing orders. 

“No,” Sherlock straightened, flipping his jacket collar. “I will find him myself, I do not require your assistance.” Mycroft might have shared the Vision, but Sherlock would not allow the interfering git to hunt down John first. Who knows what the man would say to him?

“Honestly, Sherlock, I could speed things along, easily.”

“I waited thirty years, brother, I believe I can handle a few more days. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to find John,” Sherlock walked off into the warehouse district.

“Give him a chance, it will be good for him. I think this John will work out well. Sherlock certainly needs someone brave and protective,” Greg said, watching the consulting detective walk off. 

Mycroft huffed, “Bravery is just a kind word for stupidity.”

Greg reached out, taking Mycroft’s hand so their marks touched along their forearms. He could feel how nervous, how cautious, his mate was, but hidden beneath that, so small it was like the flicker of a candle, was hope. He tightens his grip and offers comfort. Everything would be okay. 

****

The first time John woke, his mind was mush. He felt like was floating out of his body, like the pain in his shoulder belonged to someone else. His vision wasn’t working quite right either. He could only see a vague shape of someone standing over him. “Sherlock,” he called, voice harsh, god he needed water. 

Someone grabbed his reaching hand, squeezing it tightly. “Its alright, we’re taking you home. We’ll find him.”

John woke a few more times after that, but each was filled with the same feeling of detachment and the horrible dryness in his throat. 

When he came too and could finally focus, he was tucked into a hospital bed with a saline drip attached to his arm. 

Murray was at his side, passed out at an odd angle on one of the hospital chairs. He was in a clean uniform, but a bit of stubble on his face suggested he was not taking the best care of himself. 

“Bill,” John called, trying to reach out, but his shoulders were stiff. 

Murray, first name Bill, snorted as he came awake, “Huh, what?” He blinked wildly before focusing on John, “Cap, you’re up!”

“Yeah, and mostly lucid this time,” John grinned, but his smile fell as his memories rushed back, “Bill, did I…Did I have my?” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t risk the answer being no. 

“You had your Vision, mate. I shared it. Who would have thought three-continents Watson would be bonded to a posh bloke?”

John blushed; he had been a bit wild in his twenties, finding unbonded women in search of a little fun. “Yeah, that was a surprise, but Sherlock, God he’s brilliant.”

“You know this how exactly? I mean, I assumed it was the guy in the long coat and not the crazy guy, but where are you getting this name? I mean, Sherlock, really?” Bill gave a wry twist of his lips. 

John shrugged, or attempted too, “It’s just right, I know it is. Just like I know he’s a brilliant idiot and he needs my help.”

“Captain,” Bill looked serious, “that crazy guy knew your name, he was looking for you.”

“But he didn’t find me. I’m not sure how he got my name, but he knew I was a soldier. I need…Bill I need to get out of here. Where ever here is.” John was certain of it, he knew he needed to leave; he had to be far away when that man came sniffing for him. 

“Captain, you got shot. You had a hole in your lungs. I don’t think you should be planning a hospital escape. We’re at Croughton, I’m pretty sure we’ll be safe on base, American run or not.”

“That man had semtex and snipers. I’d rather not risk it. Wait, did you say Croughton?” John scrunched his brow, “We’re back home?”

Bill looked nervous, focusing on everything, but John. “There was nerve damage to your arm, and with your Vision. I’m sorry Captain, they passed your paperwork.”

“I’m getting discharged?” John swallowed. The Army was his life, and that was it. A single gunshot and they where done with him. 

“I’m sorry, Cap,” Bill sighed, not sure what else to say. 

“John.”

“What?” Bill asked, confused.

“John, you should call me John. I guess I’m not your Captain anymore.” John gave a pathetic smile.

Bill shook his head, “You pulled my ass outta more scrapes than I can count. You will always be my Captain, but I’d be honored to call you John. Now, enough of this, we have a posh git in a long coat to find and a mad man with semtex to avoid.” He stood, clapping his hands like he was wiping them of the whole thing. 

“Yes we do, now get me out of this damn hospital,” John grinned, feeling better. He had a bond mate to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little shorter chapter this time, I had wanted it to be a bit longer, but this was a good end point. Next chapter shouldn't take too long to get out, though.


	3. Chapter Two

What should have been an easy enough search was turning into something else entirely. After two weeks, the only thing Sherlock knew was the man’s name was Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, and he had returned to Britain three weeks ago with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. 

After that, the trail went cold. John left his hospital in Croughton with his medic Bill Murray well before he was released, and then nothing.  
It was desperation that led him to Mycroft’s home, though he would never admit it. 

Lestrade answered the door, looking equal parts protective and compassionate. Sherlock hated it. 

“Come on in.” Lestrade led him to the ostentatiously decorated parlor, where tea was already waiting. 

Sherlock busied himself preparing a cup, so he did not have to see Mycroft’s smug face when he entered the room. 

Mycroft placed a folder at his elbow, and took a seat without saying anything. 

Sherlock turned to the folder, flipping through the pages slower than he normally would so he could absorb every word. Most of it followed what he already knew, just filling in the blanks with more details. 

John had received his Vision as he was pulled into the helicopter after he was shot, confirmed by Murray whom shared it. Reports from the flight also stated that John had shouted the name ‘Sherlock’ before he passed out from his injuries. 

Like his own information, John and Murray disappeared from the hospital, but attached was Murray's Leave Request Form for 30 days to aid in a shared Vision search. 

Also attached, was an image of John at his bank at the day he disappeared from the hospital, withdrawing 5,000 pounds from his Savings. 

“He ran,” Sherlock remarked, he could feel his body being overcome with numbness. There was a twitch in his fingers he only got when he needed a hit. 

“We don’t know that, there is no telling what he saw in his vision,” Lestrade said, leaning forward as if to offer comfort. 

Sherlock scoffed, “He said my name after his vision, how many Sherlocks do you think are in Britain? He left that hospital and disappeared to the point neither Mycroft nor I can find him. That is not something that can be accomplished by accident. “ He shook the folder before slamming it on the coffee table. 

“Can you find him by sense?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head, feeling ill, “No I… I can’t feel anything. After the Vision it was like an iron band connecting us, he wasn’t far, but the next day it was just gone.” 

“Well, that is possible, I mean…” Lestrade trailed off, not willing to complete his thought. 

Sherlock knew what the detective was talking about, level 1 bonds were sometimes too weak to allow the bond mates to find each other from sense alone. “Whatever he saw made John flee instead of search for his bond mate. If the bond is weak then the separation sickness wouldn’t be unbearable. Perhaps it is for the best that we ignore it. “

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called, touching Sherlock’s elbow as he went for the door. 

Sherlock couldn’t face him, could not stand to see the pity on his brother’s face. He shook his hand off, “Its for the best.” He slammed the door on his way out just because he could. 

The next week brought an email from an old school acquaintance. Sebastian Wilkes had gone far since school, becoming head of the largest bank in London. 

Sherlock hated the man, but having a chance to show off and take his mind off John was just what he needed. 

Deducing Sebastian was a comfort. The man had a level one bond in silver that was heavily infected with infidelity. The man kept it covered, but his discomfort was obvious in the way he winced every time his cuff shifted. 

Finding who had broken into the bank to leave a strange message, proved to be far more exciting then he expected. 

Chasing the yellow graffiti led him to three murders and a fascinating Chinese smuggling ring that left the newly appointed DI Dimmock baffled. 

Unfortunately, the case was over much too quickly and the head of the Black Lotus Clan escaped arrest. What was most unsettling, was how often Sherlock found himself turning to his right to speak to someone that wasn’t there. Perhaps, he was suffering from separation sickness after all. 

*****

Bill struggled with his bags of Thai takeaway while he slipped the hotel key into the door. 

“Brought some greasy noodles,” he yelled, pushing open the door with his shoulder. He could hear the news droning on in the background. John had been watching the news nonstop since they had left the hospital.

John was curled up on one of the beds, shaking. 

“John,” he called, worried. John had been looking steadily pale since leaving the hospital, but now he looked terrible. His complexion was boarder line green and he was shaking like a junky with withdrawal. “Christ, I knew we shouldn’t have left the hospital so early.” He placed the Thai on a table before kneeling in front of his friend. 

“It’s not that,” John slurred. 

“The hell it ain’t,” Bill scoffed, rolling John over so he could look at his shoulder wound. “Your burning up,” he muttered, pulling the jumper down to show the bandage. He only tore the corner of the bandage down, expecting to find pus or blood poisoning. Instead, he found the wound had taken on the healthy white shine of fresh scar tissue. There was barely any redness and no pus. “John… it looks fine.”

“Told you,” John huffed in what might have been laughter. 

“This is separation sickness?” Bill asked, brow furrowed. He had seen it before of course; being in the military could make getting to your bond mate difficult. But he had never seen anything like this. Separation sickness was characterized be finger twitches and a slight fever. John looked moments from death’s door. “We have to get you to Sherlock. We know where he is, come on. I can even call him, his number was on that weird website of his. “

“No,” John shook his head. “It’s not time.”

“Not time! You had your Vision, the universe is telling you its time!” Bill was shaking, furious. 

“I can’t explain it Bill, but its not time, not yet,” John, struggled to sit up, his arms shaking like an old man. 

“When will it be time then, because it doesn’t look like you’ve got much to spare?”

“I’ll know when it happens,” John shrugged. 

Bill scoffed, but he grabbed his box of noodles off the table and handed John a small container of jasmine rice, he didn’t look like he could keep down much else. 

John nibbled at the rice like he was forcing down gruel, eyes fixed on the news as the women droned on about the Euro. 

“This just in!” the news lady exclaimed, the picture changing from the studio to a street in London that looked like something out of Afghanistan - except with less sand. “A gas leak on Baker Street resulted in a massive explosion. Police and Firemen on scene are still sorting through the wreckage, but no one seems to have been injured in the blast.”

John put down his rice, a rather frightening grin spreading across his face. “That, is what we were waiting for.”

“That? A bomb, what does that mean?” 

“It means, the game is on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does everything I write end up needing more build up then I ever intend?
> 
> FYI: I always thought it was strange that John was broke when he came back from Afghanistan. While I have no doubt that an Army pension would not be enough to live on in London, a Captain that has spent at least one, probably more, deployments to Afghanistan should actually have quite the savings account. I don't know about Britain, but as an American soldier returned from Iraq, I saved something like 90% of my paychecks downrange and I was very low ranking. What the hell did John do with his money?


	4. Chapter Three

Sherlock observed the body in front of him, washed up on the side of the river Thames. Deductions whirled through his mind, he felt like a super nova, a machine of thought. 

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked, pulling out his notepad in preparation.

“I can tell you one thing; that lost Vermeer is a fake,” Sherlock grinned, before stalking off.

“Wait! What?” Lestrade scrabbled after him. This whole madness was just a mess, and Sherlock was getting worse, flouncing off on his own without a hint of a clue. Someone knew just how to play the mad genius. 

“Have you ever heard of ‘the Golem’?” Sherlock didn’t slow down. 

“What, like the story?” Lestrade huffed. 

Sherlock twitched, his usual response to idiocy. “No, the assassin, strange he would be hired to kill a rather useless security guard. Unless that guard knew the painting about to be displayed was a fake. The only question now is how?” Sherlock pumped his fist in a decidedly un-Sherlock manor, “I’m on fire.” 

Lestrade watched him go; dread filling his chest. This wasn’t going to end well. 

His phone beeped in his pocket. “Hey,” Lestrade greeted, clicking the answer button. 

“Is everything alright, Gregory?” Though Mycroft was a master of not showing his emotions, Greg knew worry when he heard it.

“You felt that across town?”

“You are projecting quite forcefully. I assume this has to do with Sherlock?”

“This bomber worries me, My. He’s playing Sherlock like… like a violin.” Greg ran his fingers over his bond mark, taking comfort in the familiar gesture. 

“I believe I have gathered some information on our culprit. Call me when Sherlock decides to make his grand reveal.” Mycroft paused on the other end of the phone, “Gregory…”

“Yeah, me too, My. Be safe,” Greg couldn’t hide a small smile as he tucked his phone away. 

“You know, I never would have thought it, but he’s good for you,” Sally commented as she walked up.

Greg shrugged, “I know, I never thought he existed to tell you the truth. Not after so many years.”

“I’m happy for you, you know. Even if he is the Freak’s brother.” Sally bumped his shoulder and handed him a coffee, still steaming. 

“Thanks.” Once again Greg didn’t comment on her referral of Sherlock, who was basically his brother-in-law. 

Sally had been there when Lestrade had met his wife, a woman with a single black bond. Their marriage had been a combining of two lonely people trying to fit into shapes that were not their own. Sally had also been there when his wife had cheated on him. It was only a month later his Vision struck, a decade late, and attaching him to a man that could only be dreamed up in books. 

***

John and Bill had found the pool the moment they settled in London. There weren’t that many pools to choose from, and once Sherlock had posted about Carl Powers on his website, it didn’t take a consulting detective to confirm the location. 

Bill was still convinced they should contact Sherlock, but he was used to taking orders from John, Captain or not. It also helped that John’s color was coming back and he seemed less sick, even as the news channels lit up with another bombing. 

“He knew, Bill. That mad man knew my name, just trust me,” John repeated as he cleaned the M-16 rifle Bill had acquired. It was extremely illegal, and the Army buddies that had given it to them would have hell to pay if it wasn’t returned soon. 

“Right, yeah well is there any carbon left on thing or would you like a white glove test?” Bill chuckled, picking up the near sparkling firing pin. 

“Er, sorry,” John blushed. He assembled the gun easily, slipping each piece into place. The rifle fit in a padded suitcase when it was in two pieces. John checked the accompanying night gear before putting it away. “I feel like James Bond,” he teased, clicking the case shut.

“Sorry mate, you may be blonde, but you’re about a foot too short.” Bill dodged an elbow to his side.

“Hush, you,” John growled.

They took a cab to a building beside the pool. John, being the better marksmen, went to the roof. Bill went to the pool to set up communications and hide in the girl’s locker room. 

John found his best vantage point on the adjacent building. While he could not see inside the pool, he had a clear shot of the roof. Bill’s hidden speakers would give him enough warning of what was taking place down below. 

He assembled his rifle and prepped the scope, but did not turn it on. While the pool was closed, it was still light out. It would be a long wait. 

***

Hunting down the Golem, may not have been one of Sherlock’s brightest ideas. While he knew the assassin was large, the eight-foot behemoth that had tried to strangle him at the science museum had been a surprise. 

He may not have made it if Lestrade hadn’t shown up. The Golem got away, but Sherlock had confirmed his initial deduction. The painting was a fake. 

Proving it, however, was harder than he had assumed. If he had been an instant slower, a child would have died for his failure. Perhaps knowing about the Solar System could be of ‘some’ use. 

Mycroft was ridiculously smug about the whole thing. “ You need to avoid him, Sherlock. Moriarty is not someone you wish to challenge.”

“So, his name is Moriarty,” Sherlock stood outside the museum, admiring the stars and his success. 

Mycroft’s face grew pinched, like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Sherlock, I’m not making idle suggestions, Moriarty is the most dangerous man in Britain.”

“Oh,” Sherlock peered at his brother, sly. “Then getting rid of him should be a service to the crown. You always say I should be more civil minded.”

Mycroft rubbed his brow, “Honestly, brother. Since you will clearly not listen to good advice, have you had any luck with the missile plans?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to clench the memory stick in his pocket. “No, haven’t the time, talk to me next week, or, better yet, leave me be.” 

“My, come on. It’s been a long night,” Lestrade appeared at his shoulder, radiating calm. 

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft refused to sneer, letting Gregory lead him into the awaiting black sedan. 

Sherlock disappeared into a cab, heading for Baker Street. 

***

It was almost midnight, when the pool speakers picked up noise. John shifted in his prone position, clicking on the night vision scope to scan the building. 

He could see the snipers now, settling into position along the pool roof. There were only two of them, thank god. John set his sights on the one furthest from him, but did not fire. 

The microphone in his ear, hissed. He could hear men grunting and scuffling. 

“This would have been so much easier with Johnny boy, but I suppose you’ll have to do.” The voice was unmistakable. It was the crazy man from his Vision. 

“It must have taken some effort to circumvent my security,” another voice said. The man sounded overly posh, but John didn’t recognize him, though he suspected it was one of the hostages. 

“Hmm easier then you would think. Every service has their weak link, now no more out of you, hmm.”

There was a ruffling of cloth then a muffled noise. John guessed the man had just been gagged. 

Orders were given to clear the area, and John heard a few shuffles as people left. He guessed it was whoever carried Sherlock’s brother and bond mate into the area.

“Hello,” Sherlock’s voice sounded over the microphone, and it made all the tense sickness in his gut, melt. “I brought a little getting to know you present.”

John could hear the echo of the door shutting. Sherlock made a startled noise. “Mycroft? Lestrade?” It was barely there, but he sounded worried. 

“I would make them my mouth pieces as well, but I think your brother is best muzzled, don’t you agree.” The pool gave a terrible echo in the wake of the man’s glee. “Jim Moriarty, hi!”

“My fan,” Sherlock commented, sounding completely emotionless. 

“Hmm I’m afraid I had to rush things a bit. You didn’t even let the cabbie play his game. I’m disappointed, Sherlock, I really am. I thought you were like me, but then you had to go and have your Vision. How is dear Johnny, hmm?”

There was a rustle of fabric. “How?” Sherlock sounded somewhere between stunned and furious. 

“Oh, Sherlock, honestly. I’ve let you see a glimpse, just a glimpse of what I have going on out there. You don’t think I could find out the name of your mate, especially when you have the entire London, homeless on the lookout for one John Watson. So ordinary, my dear, it makes me sad.” 

“I made you sad, so what, you’re going to kill me?” Sherlock didn’t seem all that upset about the suggestion.

Moriarty scoffed, “Oh don’t be boring, I mean I’m going to kill you anyways. But first, I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.”

The words were like an adrenaline shot to John’s heart. He clicked the gun from safe to semi. 

“I have been reliably informed I don’t have one.” Sherlock sounded so calm, so certain. 

“We both no that’s not true, don’t we. Its just not here, yet.”

“I’ll be there soon, Sherlock, just hold on.” John whispered, taking aim.

“Of all the hostages you could think of, my brother and Lestrade was the best you could do?” 

“Well I’m afraid I’ve had trouble finding Johnny boy, your mate seems to have run away. Weeeee,” there was a horrible echo. “You should be pleased he is being sensible, you hardly want to spend your life tied to some dumb soldier. What do you think that bond would have been level one, two maybe? Or were you hoping to match your brother with a four, or a legendary five, perhaps?”

“Well, it hardly matters now.” Sherlock sounded…sad. 

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. I just can’t let you go on, I just can’t. So sorry.”

At the sound of fingers snapping, john squeezed the trigger. He didn’t have time to verify the hit. He turned his sights to the other sniper and fired off two rounds, just in case. 

There was no blast of semtex, so he took the moment to focus on the first sniper. Both were down, no visible movement. 

There was an angry scream over the system, like a spoiled child. “NO! No!” Moriarty was roaring, but he apparently didn’t have a way to activate the bomb. “This isn’t over Sherlock, you have something to protect now. I will take great pleasure in tearing it to pieces.” 

There was an echo on the tile as Moriarty fled. 

John listened carefully waiting to hear from Bill.

****

Sherlock watched Jim leave, too stunned to move. 

The gunshots should have been it; Sherlock had been prepared for a fiery death. Instead, the three shots had clearly taken out the snipers on the roof, but who? Mycroft’s men?

A man ran into the room, panting from a sprint. His skin was darkened in a soldier’s tan line; also obvious from his haircut and the Browning he carried at his side. “Sorry, the bastard had a car waiting,” the man huffed. 

Closer inspection showed a familiar face, Sherlock scowled, trying to place it. 

“Er Sorry, Bill Murray. You’re Sherlock Holmes, right?” He held out his hand. 

Sherlock felt slapped. “John?” He was so shocked, he couldn’t even speak in whole sentences, idiot. 

Bill just grinned, “John’s a better shot, he’ll be down shortly.”

Needing to do something, anything then look at the man, he went about untying his brother and Lestrade. He flung the explosives to the other side of the pool for good measure. 

“Ahh that explains his mysterious disappearance from the hospital, then,” Mycroft remarked, shaking Bill’s hand. 

“Yeah, John was insistent that he had to wait. The wanker, he got sick as a dog for awhile there.” 

“It was worth it.”

Sherlock spun as the door behind him clattered shut. 

John stood there. He was in a horrible black jumper and cargo pants. He had an illegal rifle slung over his shoulder and his hair was more grey than blonde. 

Sherlock had never seen someone more beautiful in his life. 

“Hi,” John gulped, looking nervous. He rubbed his palms along his pants. 

“You shot two men for me,” Sherlock sounded dazed even to his own ears. 

“I would have shot three if I had a clear view of Moriarty,” John shrugged. It was a one-shoulder shrug, stiff from his bullet wound. 

It was like being told ‘I love you’ for the first time. John was perfect, a little golden whirlwind of danger wrapped in a cuddly package just for him. 

“For god’s sake touch the man!” Bill yelled from behind them, exasperated. 

John chuckled, looking less nervous. “Um, yeah, would you…” he held out his hand.

Sherlock took a step forward, heart pounding. It would be single bond, he knew it. It couldn’t be anything else, maybe a double if he was lucky, but that was okay. It was fine. He reached out his hand, steady, despite his nervousness. 

They touched, palm to palm. For a moment, nothing, then light exploded, a tiny sun between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the argument seems to be that John has a gambling problem, but let me put this in perspective. A Captain with 5+ years of service in the Army makes 43,000 pounds a year. I have no idea if the British receive all the lovely money benefits that American soldiers do, but it doesn't matter. 
> 
> For the amount of work put into it, the Army pays pennies, but when you live in the barracks and have no bills, saving money is easy. John was not married, does not have kids, and we assume does not own a car. In five years of service alone (and I'm assuming he probably served more) John should have something like 100,000 pounds in his account. Now you might say he used it to pay for college, but the Army is dying for surgeons, they would have taken care of his student loans, no problem. (For reference I was the second lowest rank in the U.S. Army when I was in Iraq, making something like 18,000 a year before taxes. After 10 months in Iraq I left with close to 20K in my bank account. Its mostly gone now because I bought a house, but honestly John. )
> 
> So either Harry borrowed a ridiculous amount of money or John has a crippling gambling addiction that Sherlock is just ignoring. 
> 
> Now I realized they are just playing this off the books, where soldier hardly made anything in victorian, London and are just hoping not to many of the watchers are war vets, but you know food for thought. If John from the show really does have a gambling problem then apparently Sherlock actually has some tact not to mention it.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The light exploded like a small super nova between them, heat racing up John’s arm. 

Momentarily blinded, John blinked away the spots in his vision. He felt warm all over, like he’d just gulped a cup of hot tea in one go. 

“Amazing,” Sherlock whispered, sounding awed. John took a moment to indulge in the sound, certain it would not be a tone he would hear often. 

He smiled at his…bond mate. He couldn’t believe at thirty-four years old he was just meeting the man. The fact that his mate was a man at all was a little startling. John had never found himself attracted to a man, but he thought Sherlock certainly had a body to be admired. 

“I’ve never been attracted to anyone, this should be interesting,” Sherlock muttered. 

John found himself chuckling, but stopped when he realized Sherlock’s mouth hadn’t been moving. _‘Sherlock?’_ he thought.

_‘John? Telepathy, hmm.’_ Sherlock gave a mischievous grin usually seen on particularly bad children. 

_‘Is this normal?’_ John had been around enough bond mates as a doctor that he knew it wasn’t, but he couldn’t help but ask. 

_‘Well, this certainly isn’t,’_ Sherlock reached out and touched below John’s left eye. 

While John could not see his own eye, he had a perfect view of Sherlock’s, which is when he realized that the man’s left eye was suddenly a very familiar dark blue; familiar, because he saw it in the mirror every morning. _‘We switched an eye? Why?’_

_‘That is the question, isn’t it?’_ Sherlock flung off his coat, a whirl of thoughts running through his brain so quickly, John couldn’t understand any of it. Coat shed, Sherlock began flipping the buttons on his dress shirt. He was moving so quickly, he popped one of his cuffs in the effort to remove his shirt. 

The removal of his shirt revealed the newly formed mark on his right arm. It was a startling pure red against Sherlock’s pale skin, red, meaning love and passion or danger and excitement. John had a pretty good idea which one theirs stood for. 

John took a step forward, entranced. He took Sherlock’s too skinny wrist in his fingers and ran his thumb along the first mark. There was a slight different between mark and skin, the mark being oddly smooth. 

Sherlock gave a full body shiver. 

Usually a bond mark was only made of two symbols, a combining of the traits brought into the union. The mark on Sherlock was an interlocking spiral of knowledge, danger, loyalty, justice, healer, scientist, protector, scholar, and some John didn’t recognize. After the fifth swirl of symbols, the mark continued in unconnected tribal-like circles that ended in a double sunburst on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

John released his arm, with an overriding need to see his own mark. He tugged off his jumper and undershirt, slinging them to the side. Though they had shaken hands the normal way, John was surprised to find his mark on his left arm. It was a mirror of Sherlock’s, except the sunburst on his shoulder encircled his bullet wound. 

Art by Kricket

“I thought it would be a level 1, I was certain,” Sherlock spoke out loud this time, running his fingers along John’s mark. John could feel a sparking heat every time his finger went from the smooth texture of the mark to his bare arm. 

“I think we can safely say it’s not a level 1,” a jovial voice spoke. 

John tore his eyes off Sherlock to see Lestrade walking over, looking pleased. 

Sherlock startled, dropping his hand and grabbing his shirt off the ground. 

John was confused for a moment, but Sherlock was muttering pretty loudly in his mind, something about track marks and hiding them. John had noticed the obvious signs of old drug use when he had been admiring the mark earlier, but he decided to save that conversation for later. 

Sherlock shot him a grateful look as he slipped into his jacket. 

Feeling exposed, John tugged into his jumper. 

“A level five bond, perhaps the strongest bonds need time,” Mycroft remarked, coming up beside Lestrade. 

Sherlock scoffed, “Such a romantic notion.” But he looked pleased, his inner thoughts practically purring at having a higher bond then his brother. _‘Someone perfectly matched to me in everyway, is it possible?’_

“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’ John plucked the quote from a dusty corner of Sherlock’s mind, but it seemed apt.

_‘Clever,’_ Sherlock grinned at him. _‘Maybe it is possible,’_ he whispered to himself. 

_‘Hmm, that might be kind of annoying,’_ John commented, wondering if there was a way to block more personal thoughts. 

_‘Certainly an experiment will have to be conducted,’_ Sherlock thought, equally worried. The telepathy could be very helpful, but having someone in his mind at all times would be beyond invasive. 

“You’re having a whole conversation aren’t you, I can see it in your faces,” Lestrade chuckled; apparently they had been a little distracted. 

“It may take awhile to get used to,” John shrugged. 

“Well I’ll be, Captain, looks like everything worked out perfectly,” Bill slung a one-arm hug around John and gave him a tight squeeze. 

“Looks like,” John conceded, thinking about his wounded shoulder and his discharge. Even if he hadn’t been discharged do to the wound, a level 5 bond would have got him kicked out right away. Even if Sherlock had wanted to join with him, they would never let such a pair into the Army. 

Sherlock shot him a look, clearly sensing his mood. “I think it is best for John and I to return home.”

“Yes, I imagine an adjustment period will be necessary. I will deal with the snipers,” Mycroft remarked, shooing them away with a wave of his hand. 

“Err yeah, but I can’t let you leave with that, “Lestrade held out his hand.

“Oh, um actually this has to get back to base,” John blushed, handing over the rifle to Bill. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” Bill shouldered the rifle. “I’ve got a case for it.”

Lestrade looked like he wanted to argue, but his eyes shifted over to Mycroft for a moment before he shrugged. 

John picked up on the movement, and guessed that’s what he and Sherlock looked like when they ‘talked’. 

They went their separate ways from there. Lestrade and Mycroft taking care of the scene, while Bill left to clean and return the weapon. John found himself being shuffled into a cab while Sherlock’s mind buzzed with thoughts of 221B. 

****

Sherlock flung open the door to the flat, strutting like a peacock. He knew John would love Baker Street, the eclectic furniture and older décor suited his tastes, and he knew soldier-doctor John would have little care about the body parts in the fridge or the eyeballs in the microwave. 

_‘As long as they stay on the bottom shelf of the fridge’_ John teased, surveying the flat. “This is nice, very nice, but are you sure you want me to move in with you, just like that?” John was not normally a self-conscious person, but it did seem sudden. 

“John, you have moved into my mind, I hardly think moving into my flat will be a problem. There is a room upstairs. You can meet the landlady, Mrs. Hudson tomorrow. Now, I can tell you are exhausted, we will sort everything else out tomorrow.” Sherlock would have made an interesting officer; he certainly had the commanding voice down. 

“Right, okay,” John wasn’t about to argue. Sherlock was right, and he was knackered. “Night, then” he murmured, navigating the stairs to the second bedroom. It was oddly untouched, like Sherlock’s clutter had exploded down stairs, but couldn’t be bothered to reach any further. 

There was only a bed, made up in floral sheets that had to belong to the landlady, and a small side table with lamp. 

John dressed down to his pants and snuggled into the cool sheets. He was asleep in moments, right hand curled around his marked forearm. 

Weather it was moments or hours later, John wasn’t sure, but he woke up screaming, the Afghan desert fresh on his mind. He turned over, panting and sobbing, attempting to force air into his stubborn lungs. “Idiot,” John snarled to himself, how could he have bonded with Sherlock. The man was an amazingly brilliant detective; he didn’t need a half mad, damaged ex-soldier dogging his heels. God, his mum was right. 

_‘You, are an idiot,’_ Sherlock’s thoughts seemed particularly forceful as he appeared at the side of the bed. 

John resisted the urge to turn away from him. 

_‘Budge over, a level five mark proves that a half-mad ex-soldier is exactly what I need,’_ Sherlock pushed his way into the right side of the bed, curling his arm over John like he belonged there. 

John stared at the ceiling. Worrying about his PTSD and how bad of an idea it was to have Sherlock curled so close to him. 

_‘Sleep, John,’_ Sherlock yelled at him, exasperated. 

Finally, sleep came, and the nightmares stayed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt bad for John and his nightmares. A friend of mine (ironically a soldier named John, returned from Afghanistan with an injured leg) had some trouble sleeping for awhile when he got back. The Army tries to do what they can for soldiers, but you are rushed through psych evaluations so quickly things get missed. I spent two weeks after coming back with little to no sleep and horrible nightmares. Of course, unlike John, my nightmares had nothing to do with the war and everything to do with the fact that I was getting out of the military and only had three weeks to put together an ungodly amount of paperwork. (Usually soldiers start prepping 6 months in advance for their release date.) I was so stressed out I could hardly see straight, let alone sleep. The most dangerous thing that ever happened to me was when they blew up my lab, but I wasn't in it at the time, so it was all good. 
> 
> Not sure what the point of saying all that was...um go thank a veteran I guess.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Sherlock woke feeling amazingly rested. It was so rare, that he took a moment to luxuriate in the warmth of the bed. Of course, most of the warmth was radiating off of John, who was curled against his front. 

He reached out along the bond, but in sleep he could only register John’s contentment. Nothing like the raging storm of _pain, hurt, danger_ that had assaulted him during the nightmare. 

Sherlock left the bed with care, not wanting to wake the sleep-deprived soldier. The kitchen was its usual mess, but the kettle was clean and he found two cups that hadn’t held body parts, at least not recently. 

While the water boiled, he contemplated the sudden shift in his life. He had gone thirty years without a bond and suddenly he had one so strong that he would never be alone again, that was both comforting and unsettling. Even now, he could feel John’s presence as a comfortable warmth at the back of his mind. He would never have trouble finding John again. 

John was waking up; he could feel it in the way his thoughts shifted. 

***

John woke for the first time in weeks without the desperate, heart-pounding wrench into the real world. He felt calm, relaxed. His fever and shakes were gone and his shoulder felt better than ever. 

He stepped into shower, humming. He borrowed the shampoo and soap that was already there, taking his time cleaning the red marks swirling up his arm. He couldn’t take his eyes of the mark, it was just…amazing. 

Regardless of the weather, John pulled on his undershirt from the day before. The short sleeves showed off his new mark. 

Downstairs, Sherlock was reading the paper and sipping a cup of tea. While he was wearing a burgundy dress shirt, he had rolled up the sleeves to show his own mark. 

John knew these were normal reactions from the newly bonded, but he enjoyed the sight of the mark all the same. “Morning,” he greeted, grabbing the mug Sherlock had made, exactly as he liked it. 

“Morning,” Sherlock grinned behind his tea. John could feel warmth along the bond. Their thoughts seemed to be muted, only a gentle stream of murmurs that was easy to ignore. 

“Sherlock, dear,” a call came from the steps, before an elderly woman appeared at the door. “Did everything get worked out with your case? You came home so late.”

Sherlock stood up and pulled the woman into a hug. “Yes, it worked out perfectly. “ He pulled back to gesture at John. “Mrs. Hudson, this is John, John this is Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, eyeing the obvious marks on their arms. “I’m so happy for you.” 

John blushed under the scrutiny, Mrs. Hudson reminded him of his Gran. 

Mrs. Hudson enclosed John in a hug. “I knew everything would work out. Sherlock was in such a state, that boy, but I told him. Don’t you fret dear, your John will show up when its time.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson,” John blushed darker. 

“I think this calls for some fresh scones later, but just this once dear, I’m not your housekeeper.” Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock another peck on the cheek before heading back down stairs. 

“Your Landlady is amazing,” John laughed; he couldn’t imagine anyone renting a room to Sherlock after seeing the state of the kitchen. 

“I went to Florida where her husband was on death row for murder,” Sherlock grinned. “One of my first cases. “

“You got her husband off death row?”

“Oh no, I ensured it. She offered me a special rate on the flat in return.” 

John scrunched his brow in confusion. “Was he her…soul mate?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson met her husband after the death of her mate. She is one of the few that lost her mate between receiving her vision and first touch,” Sherlock spoke softly. John could feel his sadness, Sherlock was remembering John’s gunshot wound and the very real chance of them never meeting. 

“That’s terrible,” John sighed, after over thirty years without a mate and two days with one, he couldn’t imagine not having met Sherlock. 

_‘Mrs. Hudson is stronger than most, she faces the world as it is, but does not find it wanting. I have always admired her.’_ Sherlock sent his thoughts along the link, not willing to say the words out loud. 

The sharp beep of a text, interrupted the moment. Sherlock plucked out his phone and sent a rapid-fire response. “ Lestrade needs to see us at the Met to get our statements. “

“Of course, I imagine all of last night was not so easily swept under the rug.” John reached to grab his coat, but hesitated, he didn’t want his arm covered.

Sherlock, who had to be more self-conscious of his track marks, left his coat on the stand and went for the door. “Ready?”

“Always,” John grinned, following after. They both left their coats behind.

They entered the Met side by side, marked arms touching with every step. The body was still young and sensitive. Distance would still result in bond sickness, with a bond as strong as theirs, separating may always result in sickness. 

The main room of the Met was swarming with Sergeants and Detectives going about their day, but the entire room seemed to halt at their entrance. 

John could feel Sherlock’s nervousness, he was proud of his job as consulting detective, but he was not unaware of the animosity most felt towards him. John gave his hand a quick squeeze before letting go. The brief contact brought a flair of warmth along the connection. 

“Christ, the Freak actually bonded, did you have to paint on a few extra rows to suit your ego?” Donovan sneered, as she approached them.

John felt his whole body stiffen. Freak? How dare she call Sherlock such a thing! He clenched his fists, reminding himself that he did not hit women. 

_‘Relax, John,’_ Sherlock sent out. “Ah Sally,” he gave one of his fake smiles, “I can ensure you the mark is genuine, but I can understand your confusion with such a paltry bond as your own. It must be difficult to identify the real thing.” 

Sally scowled. “Shut it, freak. I guess if two sociopaths bond the marks would have to be high. It must be easy to form a connection when there are no emotions involved.”

Sherlock’s entire body screamed righteous indignation, his posture straightening even more with the build of what was brewing to be an epic tongue lashing. 

John placed a hand along his bare forearm. “Listen here, Sergeant,” he growled the rank with all the distaste he felt, ”you will not speak to me or my mate like that ever again, unless you care to be struck with the highest level of bond mate discrimination the Met has. I’m sure your career could survive such a permanent mark. “

Donovan’s whole face transformed, like she had just bitten into a lemon. 

Before she could fight back, however, Lestrade called out from his office “Oy, get back to work.”

Sally sent them both looks of scorn before returning to her desk. Noise erupted again, as everyone scuttled about to look busy, still sending curious looks at the new soul mate couple. 

Sherlock sent John a small smile, pleased by the defense even if he did not need it. “More useless paperwork, Lestrade? One would think that was all the London Police Department ever did?” Sherlock remarked as they entered the office. 

“I can’t even argue with that one, I’ve been up to my ears in paperwork ever since the first bomb. That mess at the pool seemed to multiply it ten fold. Which seems to be mostly your fault,” Lestrade grinned, shooting a playful glare at John. 

“Ah sorry, wasn’t my intention,” John shrugged.

Lestrade waved it away. “You’re family now, I could hardly expect Sherlock’s mate to be someone that wouldn’t cause me endless paperwork.” 

John and Sherlock filled out their statements in silence, each agreeing on what they would say along their bond. If nothing else, the telepathy was excellent for getting their stories straight. 

“I’m sorry to bring you in so early after the bond, but this had to be done. Also, Mycroft has a job for you,” Lestrade said as they handed in their finished papers. 

“A job? Now why would a care to help my brother with his boring government work?” 

Sherlock looked somewhere between irritated and bored, which made the zing of curiosity coming from him rather interesting. 

“You’ll have to ask him about it. He’s at the Diogenes, but apparently this is a national security matter and thinks you’ll find it interesting. You know he wouldn’t offer you a case so soon after your bonding. I told him not to, actually, but he insisted. “ Lestrade shrugged. 

_‘Can we take it? I am rather interested in seeing you in action. Its one thing to get some of the bleed over from the bond, its completely different to see it in action?’_ John knew Sherlock really wanted this case, wanted a chance to prove himself to his new mate, and he really was curious. 

Sherlock shot him a wicked grin. _‘We’ll take it.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What!? I updated, how did that happen? 
> 
> I had trouble with this because I'm trying to decide how Sherlock and John should react around each other. I still feel its a bit stiff, but I got passed the part that was really bugging me. The next chapter involves the woman, but in a different way from the show. I've been looking forward to introducing her for awhile.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

 

The Diogenes club was like something out of a Bond movie. If Sherlock hadn’t warned him about the ‘no talking’ rule he would have let out an impressed whistle as they passed the thresh hold. The room was filled with old rich men and the very curtains had an air of opulence. 

_‘Boring’_ Sherlock thought, a hint of a smile around his lips. 

They were led to Mycroft’s office in the back of the building. His desk was a massive mahogany thing with a roaring fireplace behind it. Mycroft was perched on his leather chair like a king surveying his subjects. 

_‘I can see the sense of drama is a family trait,’_ John teased. 

Sherlock sent him a sharp glare. 

Sitting on the corner of the desk was one of the most gorgeous women John had ever seen. Her skin was ivory pale, but not the unhealthy tinge Sherlock sported. Her hair was a long raven black and she had lined her lips in a shade like blood. 

John tried to rein in his thoughts, but judging by the sharp anger coming from Sherlock’s end, he didn’t do a very good job of it. John offered a wry grin in apology, he couldn’t help it; he wasn’t 3-Continents Watson for nothing. 

“Sherlock, John,” Mycroft greeted, rolling John’s name like he knew everything there was to know about him. Considering what Sherlock had shown him; that was probably true. “This is Irene Adler.”

Irene stood, stalking towards them like a great cat. “I’ve been told you’re quite the detective,” she purred, running her nails along Sherlock’s mark. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move away. “ What could you possibly have done to attract my brother’s aid?” 

Irene smirked, stepping back and sinking into the plush chair behind her. “Well, let’s just say I specialize in knowing what people like.” She placed a finger to her lips, revealing the level four bond on her arm. The color was a soft peach, barely visible. 

Sherlock’s face twisted for a moment, and John got an absolutely disturbing vision of Mycroft, before the thoughts settled. John could hear the whirl of deductions as Sherlock flicked his gaze over the women and then Mycroft. The thoughts were barely formed, snatches of words too quick to follow. 

“You’re bond mark formed unusually young, you lost your mate as soon as the mark formed, not realizing what happened. Strange that you would blackmail the crown for a chance to find your missing mate,” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “You can’t sense them, with a level four bond this would suggest a blockage of some sort. Judging by your age, you are growing desperate to meet them, a bond degradation by the color of the mark. A woman with your…skills must have gathered something rather telling to blackmail my brother. A member of the royal family, perhaps?” Sherlock was practically glowing, his face alight with deduction. 

Irene looked moments from pushing Sherlock against a wall and snogging him, senseless. “Hmm, brainy is the new sexy. I have to say, your website doesn’t do you justice.” Irene ran her fingers along her pale mark. “I was a toddler when the mark appeared at a park. I was,” she paused, “unable to return to find them. The bond has never been properly linked, but it recently started to fade. I need you to find her for me.”

Sherlock scoffed, “This is not the first time I have been asked to find a mate and will not be the last. What makes you think I would take your case Mrs. Adler?”

“Because I have something you want,” Irene purred, eyes alight with the thrill of baiting the Holmes brothers. “Jimmy-boy is not done with you yet, I imagine you will appreciate a leg up on the consulting criminal that would threaten your Dear John.” 

John felt a jolt down their connection like a lightening bolt. All of Sherlock’s considerable focus was suddenly tuned to ‘the woman’. 

Sherlock grinned; it lit his whole face and made him look very young. “I’ll take the case. “

****

John wasn’t certain how one went about finding a missing soul mate, but it appeared to involve a great deal of computer usage. 

They took a cab back to Baker Street, Irene accompanying them. She sat in between them and John tried very hard not be jealous of how heavily Sherlock was concentrating on her. 

The thoughts were harmless, cycling deductions and curiosities, but John still found himself stroking the bright red marks along his arm. 

_‘Don’t be stupid,’_ Sherlock scoffed. 

John shot him a wry grin across the cab. _‘Sorry.’_

Irene said nothing, just smiled demurely between them as if she could hear the thoughts as well. 

At Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson brought them tea and biscuits while Sherlock pulled eight laptops of varying design out of every corner of the flat. 

John, and to a lesser extent Irene, watched in awe as Sherlock managed to use each computer in rapid succession. He seemed to be using soul search websites. John had never been on one himself, since until recently he thought he didn’t have a soul mate. The sites were for people that had their vision, but didn’t have any luck finding their match. It was usually a result of weaker bonds, but occasionally people in Irene’s predicament searched for missed connections on the sites. 

Tired of watching Irene stare at his mate, John retreated to the kitchen for food. He knew he was making too much noise, slamming cupboards and clanking dishes as he searched for anything edible. Sherlock’s kitchen was something like a cross between a laboratory and a crime scene. There was very little that looked safe to ingest or eat off of, so he wandered down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat to beg for the scones she promised earlier. 

Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic to see him and spent some while telling him about her dreadful time in Florida while they waited for the scones to come out of the oven. 

When the main door to the flat opened, John did not think anything of it. It was not until he heard the first foot on the stairs that he went into high alert. The tread was light, careful. They moved too slowly up the stairs for clients. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” John called softly, holding a finger to his lips to indicate ‘be quite’. She nodded in understanding, before handing John a Chef’s knife from her drawer. 

He grinned at her, pleased. ‘Stay here,’ he mouthed. 

He made his way up the stairs as carefully as the men before him, but he knew the creaky places to avoid. _‘Sherlock,’_ he called across the link. The feelings coming from Sherlock were rather strange and he could not immediately identify them. 

_‘Stay down stairs,’_ Sherlock ordered. 

John resisted the urge to scoff, and continued his way up. He heard harsh voices, American accents. “You’ll tell us where it is Mrs. Adler or we will be forced to kill this gentlemen. I’m quite certain you don’t want to loose your one chance at finding your mate,” a man sneered.

John saw red. How dare that piece of trash threaten his mate? He felt the cool calm that always settled over him in the war. His heart rate slowed, his breathing even. 

The door to the flat was open, as it always was. Showing the Americans with their backs to the door. Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, a gun pressed to his precious, brilliant, _breakable_ skull. Irene was facing him, but she made no sign of seeing him. 

John went for the man with the gun trained on Sherlock first. He took the knife and severed the nerves in the hand he would need to pull the trigger. He tugged the whole arm up with the hilt of the knife. His own hand slipped easily into the grip of the gun. He fired three shots and the three Americans fell before they could even manage to pull their weapons from their holsters. 

The man John was using as a shield; screamed and screamed and screamed. John stepped far enough away, before shooting him too. 

Sherlock was just starring at him, eyes huge and mouth parted. He looked like someone had just bashed him in the head. 

“Sherlock I…” John started and stopped, what had he just done? 

Sherlock stood, approaching him so quickly that he forced John up against the wall, crowding him into the tiny space. John dropped the gun, held his hands out in surrender. 

“You amazing man,” Sherlock grinned, manic. Then he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure someone asked me not to do Irene, but I had been planing to have Irene in since the beginning. Sorry.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Sherlock may have only known John for a few days, but he thought he understood the man’s mind. After all, it only took him a glance to understand most people, a few days in someone’s mind and he should know every nook and hidden crany. John, however, was the exception. 

He was working through his laptop search when it happened. John’s mind was a continuous chatter of background noise, he had mostly learned to ignore it, but he would have to be dead not to realize how jealous Irene was making him. It was the chatter that made it so hard for him to notice that John had left the room. Since the man was actually embedded in his mind it was as if he was always there. 

In fact, Sherlock did not realize that John had gone down stairs until the chatter of his mind just...stopped. It was a silence that sent a shiver down his spine. He instantly straightened, senses alert and straining for the source of John’s sudden change. The silence in his mind scared him, made his heart want to beat faster - fight or flight response. It just couldn’t, his heart was held still and calm just as his mind was. He had become less Sherlock and more _JohnandSherlock._

_Intruders._

John’s voice whispered in his mind allowing Sherlock to catch the hesitating steps moving up the stairs. 

_‘Sherlock,’_ John called over the link, a warning. 

_‘Stay down stairs,’_ he told his bondmate, knowing that it was a useless gesture. John was a hunter, a predator whose home had just been invaded, and he would defend it with the same deadly accuracy Sherlock had seen in his vision. 

Four men rushed through the door then, Sherlock had time to register - American, here for Irene, CIA - before one of them slammed a gun across his temple and sent him to his knees. 

He held still, holding his hands up in a show of fear, but he had never felt so calm. John wasn’t even experiencing an adrenaline dump, it was something else that purred across their bond, something dark and hot like fresh blood on desert sand. 

One of the men held a gun to his head, but was speaking to Irene, “You’ll tell us where it is, Mrs. Adler, or we will be forced to kill this gentlemen. I’m quite certain you don’t want to loose your one chance at finding your mate.”

There was a flash of...something from John and then chaos. His bondmate burst through the doorway and put down four American CIA agents in a blur of such speed even Sherlock couldn’t follow. 

When it was all over, the strange connection that seemed to have held Sherlock in stasis released. It was like coming up for air after drowning. He gasped to life, struggling to his feet as he shook the tension from his limbs. 

The ferocity seemed to leave John with the same swiftness, he shrunk in on himself. Returning to looking like someone’s grandpa in that horrible jumper, instead of the beast on the hunt he had been moments before. “Sherlock, I,” he murmured. 

“You amazing man,” Sherlock grinned and practically threw himself at the man. The kiss was a sloppy mess, but he imagined most first kisses were. 

John took control of the matter swiftly, holding Sherlock’s head in place so he could properly deepen the kiss. 

Sherlock almost pulled away when tongue was introduced. _‘That’s strange, unsanitary.’_

_‘Oh for god’s sake, Sherlock!’_ John seemed to deepen the kiss just for spite, but finally pulled away with a careful nip to his bottom lip. 

“Well, now,” Irene fanned herself, “that could make a girl change her preferences.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Hardly,” and started tapping on his phone. He needed to get Mycroft involved now, loathed as he was to do it, Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to disappear four bodies. 

“We’ll have to vacate for a few hours. Mycroft’s men will be dealing with the clean up. Perhaps a wipe down for you, John,” Sherlock said, indicating the arterial splatter John had attained across his chest and face. “We shall continue the search at St. Bart’s they have an acceptable computer lab.” 

“Right,” John muttered, looking down at himself. Sherlock didn’t get a sense of any thoughts, just a riot of conflicting colors before John shut everything down with a mental door slam. The enforced quiet was even more disturbing than the abrupt calm of before. 

*****

The trip to St. Barts was uneventful, though John was still staring at him oddly for acquiring two cups of earl grey for them. Sherlock was rather proud of the idea, he had deduced that John was a tea man, and that the substance would be beneficial for his mental well-being after what seemed to have been a traumatic experience for the man. While there still seemed to be a door shut between them, the tea did seem to infuse some warmth along the bond. 

It was strange to so thoroughly concern himself with another human being - especially during a case - but the novelty of the experience had yet to waver. He pushed the incident into his mental queue along with the two - _**two**_ \- favors he now owed his brother. 

The computers were annoyingly sluggish, and their placement made it impossible to run the eight simultaneous searches he was working before. Instead, he focused on three of the marginally faster computers and ran through the more promising searches. 

Irene was perched somewhere in the back of the room, while John kept close at his side. He made sure to stay out of the way, but his presence was an obvious guard against any that dare to threaten Sherlock again. 

It was perhaps an hour of taping later when Molly came in. She had an outrageously long scarf wrapped around her neck and a canvas bag on her shoulder - heading home then. “Do you need anything?” she asked in her usual soft tone. 

“Certainly,” Irene grins, shuffling over so she is effectively invading Molly’s personal space. 

_‘She’s a regular Jack Harkness, that one,’_ John mentally huffs. 

Sherlock shoots him a curious look, but John only shakes his head. _‘Pop culture reference.’_

“Oh um,” Molly mutters, trying to scoot away from the dominatrix without looking obvious about it. 

“Ah Molly,” Sherlock interrupts them, stepping cleanly between the two. “I haven’t introduced you two yet,” he beckons towards John, and his soldier slots himself into the open arm. “This is my bondmate Dr. John Watson.” 

“Oh,” Molly flushes, plucking nervously at her bag. “I didn’t know you had your vision.” 

“How about you, Love? Have you bonded yet,” Irene asks, instigating herself into the conversation once more.  
Sherlock glares at The Woman, he may treat Molly like a doormat most of the time, but even he knows it is rude to ask those sorts of questions. So he is surprised when Molly rubs at her right sleeve. 

“I, um, sort of,” she shrugs. The tugging at her sleeve reveals a peek at a heavily faded bond. It is the color of the lightest peach and looks surprisingly familiar. 

“It can’t be,” Sherlock whines. He reaches forward and yanks her sleeve up, heedless of Molly’s squeak of protest. The bond is a pale peach level four. “I don’t believe this,” he growls, stepping back so Irene can get a better look. 

“Oh,” Irene gasps, speechless for the first time. She removes the delicate cuff over her right wrist to reveal a matching mark. “You were the girl in the park.” 

Molly’s hands are shaking as she presses her fingers over her lips, tears welling in her eyes. She shakes her head, “I can’t, I can’t… We moved and it was so pale my parents took ages to realize what had happened. I thought I would never find you. I couldn’t feel anything, there was no… no draw.” 

Irene steps forward and gently takes Molly’s hands in her own, pressing their right hands palm to palm. The bond has been a broken thing for years. At first their bonds didn’t react, their hands just pressed together while their hearts beat uncontrollably. 

Finally, with a burst of heat and a spark of light, color infuses into the bonds. Like watercolors, the pale peach darkens with violet, becoming darker and darker until their hands are a matching swirl of dark purple. With the color darkened the symbols become obvious, interlocking signs of compassion and strength. 

“Dull,” Sherlock sighs, he hates when cases are solved due to sheer luck rather than any sort of intelligent pursuit. 

John smacks him on the arm, giving him a sharp look. 

_‘What?’_ Sherlock scowls. 

_‘Don’t be a prat,’_ John gestures at the two women, _‘its romantic and sweet.’_

_‘Hardly,’_ Sherlock sighs mentally, but keeps his mouth shut.

“We’ll just leave you two to it then,” John says, waving goodbye as he tugs Sherlock towards the door. 

“Yes, and thank you, both of you,” Irene says taking her eyes off Molly for a brief moment, and for the first time since they met her, she sounds sincere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! I updated. Now I can add more stories to Intertwined without feeling bad. :D
> 
> For some reason I have a habit of switching between past and present tense even within the same sentence. I have no idea why, so if you spot some weird subject/verb agreement I apologize. I tried to catch them all.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who isn't dead! 
> 
> I'm sorry it has been nearly two years, and I'm sure everyone thought this abandoned. Honestly, this is an embarrassingly short chapter and I've been working on it for about a year which is just sad. The problem was I had no real idea where to go after the Irene case. I usually have a vague idea of where I want a story to go, but I had a complete blank after they bonded. I finally have an idea, however, of where I want this to go. I'm not making any promises, because I'm so close to getting into medical school I can taste it, but I'm not done with this just yet. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for all the lovely reviews I've still been getting.

Chapter Eight

“Only something to do with Sherlock would have you fretting so much. What did he do this time?” Greg asks, approaching his bondmate. 

Mycroft is sitting at the dining room table, staring at a single file folder. His thoughts are a worried buzz in the back of Lestrade’s mind, but he can’t pick out any distinct thoughts. 

“It is less my dear brother and more his bondmate,” Mycroft answers, pushing the folder over. 

Greg peers at it, there is a written report, but he ignores it in favor of the color photo that’s included. It is a wide angle shot of three men, all shot through the head. “John did this?” he asks, stunned.

“Trained CIA agents taken down in an instant. In this case it may have saved Sherlock’s life, but I fear Dr. Watson may have brought something home with him from the war,” Mycroft says, his thoughts are dark, clouded with worry. 

“PTSD, shit, he wouldn’t be the first, but will it affect Sherlock? Their connection is the deepest I’ve ever seen.” Greg has read his fair share of PTSD studies, of high level bondmates both being affected by mental illness. 

_Now you know why I’m worried_ Mycroft thinks, clearly aware of the same studies. 

****

Sherlock wakes screaming. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” someone is calling him from across the room, but not touching him. Thankfully not touching him, his skin feels scraped raw, it is a sensory overload. 

_‘Sherlock!’_ he is called again, though this time the voice echoes in his mind, a calming balm against the torment of his thoughts. He opens his eyes to find John pressed against the far wall, he has his hands out in front of him like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, he runs his hands through his hair and finds the wild curls sweat slicked to his brow. “I was dreaming?” Sherlock says, it sounds like a question. 

“Christ Sherlock,” John huffs, taking slow steps toward the bed, “it was more than a dream.” He perches on the edge the bed, as if ready to flee at any given moment. “I think I was having a nightmare, and I...shared it with you.” 

Sherlock tries to remember the dream, his brain flinches from it, but he can remember blistering heat, the taste of copper on his tongue, and the overwhelming scent of gunpowder and sand. “You,” he licks his lips, his throat feels dry, “ you may be right about that.” 

John can’t say the words, but his mind echoes across the bond, _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”_ He would not wish his nightmares on his worse enemy, let alone this brilliant man he considers his. 

“Is that what it is always like, so...loud?” Sherlock asks, it was almost like his own thoughts, mid-deduction. 

“Not always, but yeah, mostly,” John mutters, though this time the dream had been less, less because it was shared.

Sherlock stares down at his hands like he expects to see some answer there, but all he finds is the bright red bond marks against his pale skin, but perhaps that’s answer enough. 

John lays a hand on his back, his touch hesitant, fingers twitching with nerves. “Tea?” He blurts out because it is the first thing that comes to mind. 

Sherlock’s lips twitch in amusement, “Please, milk and sugar.” John leaves, and Sherlock takes the time to breath and get himself back under control. It’s ungodly early, but he has no interest in returning to bed, instead he pulls his dressing gown around his shoulders and heads downstairs. 

John is standing in front of the kettle, the old thing makes soft clicking noises as it heats up. He is staring at the two tea cups in front of him, but Sherlock knows his mind is miles away. 

“It is fine, you know, the dreams,” Sherlock says, stepping up beside him. 

John’s shoulders shift as he comes back into himself. “No, it really isn’t.”

“John,” Sherlock scoffs, “I`ve had my fare share of nightmares, yours just add variety.” He offers a smirk, ”stop moping, it’s dull.” 

John gives a small smile, and between them the kettle starts to whistle. 

****

The rest of the morning should be uncomfortable, but it is not. John sits in the chair that has become his and reads through the 5 different newspapers Sherlock gets delivered every morning. Three of them are reputable papers, while the last two are tabloid trash. “Really?” John asks, holding up the article of ‘I think I married a werepanther!’. 

Sherlock glances at it, “There are occasionally interesting cases hidden in that mess.” He offers a grin before continuing his pacing around the room. It is not the sort of rapid pacing that would drive John mad, but more of a slow meandering, restless and unfocused. 

“I don’t think there are any cases hidden or otherwise in any of the papers today, it is surprisingly quiet,” John comments, folding up the news.

“Dull!” Sherlock scoffs, picking up his violin and making one violent screech before putting it back down as if it`s offended him. He is giving a contemplative look to a board game on the desk when the doorbell rings, a single, forceful buzz. Sherlock head snaps up, like a dog scenting its prey. “Client!” He barks, grinning like an errant schoolboy. 

The man that comes up the stairs seems very small. He is actually an inch or two taller than John, but he shuffles into the room with his shoulders hunched and his eyes dart about as if his steps are haunted. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and his fingers are so stained with tobacco use they appear bruised. 

“Take a seat,” John offers, gesturing to his own chair. 

He falls into it, before pulling a sodden napkin from his pocket and sneezing into it. John notices the touch of ketchup on the side of his mouth, the coffee spill on the napkin, and the smudged phone number. He notices these things in the same off hand manner his training as a doctor noticed the insomnia, sweating, and dilated pupils. 

_“Very good,”_ Sherlock murmurs through the bond, sending whispers of what each observation means. 

“My….my...my,” the man twitches, “my name’s Henry Knight.” 

John glances at Sherlock, to see how he will proceed, but he looks vaguely bored. Trying to cover his bond mate's rudeness, John gives his best doctor’s smile. “How can we help you Henry?” 

Henry worries the stained napkin, avoiding eye contact. “I w..wa..was really young when I b..b..bonded. I d..do..don’t remember my vision, b..bu..but we touched and the m..ma..mark was there. Lime green and s..ss..ssso beautiful.” He picks at his already tattered right sleeve, a habit then. 

John ‘hmms’ in encouragement. 

“We were in..in..inseparable, Da would take us on walks on the m..m..mo..moors,” Henry twitches strongly on the last word, like a flinch. 

“She died,” Sherlock says flatly, but John feels a twinge of something along the bond, though John still shoots him a glare for good measure. 

“They...She was torn apart,” Henry whispers, voice so very small. His fingers spasm as he slowly lifts the frayed edges of his right sleeve.

John has seen dead bonds before, it’s hard not to as a doctor and a soldier, but he’s never seen anything like this. Dead marks fade and lose colour, sometimes they look inflamed or have black lines, Henry’s looks like a _wound_. His entire forearm is covered in raised black lines like scars, and the edges of the line are bright red and inflamed, while any bare skin is a blueish-purple-yellow bruise. It looks like a bizarre infection, and judging by the curling black scar nearing Henry’s elbow, its spreading. 

John flinches, he can’t help it, just like he can’t help clenching the mark on his own bare arm, feeling the comforting warmth of the bond against his fingertips. Even Sherlock looks startled, but he is better at hiding it, the only involuntary response a slight widening of the eyes and a twitch of his fingers. 

“What level was it?” Sherlock asks. 

“T..th..three,” Henry stutters, pushing his sleeve back down. 

John can only imagine what a severed level three bond for the majority of your life would do to one’s psyche, it certainly explains the ticks. 

“What killed her?” Sherlock asks, and John is really going to have to talk to him about tact. 

Henry gives a full body shiver, head twitching wildly. His answer is a soft hiss, “a gigantic hound.”

John’s first thought is a wolf or perhaps a local dog with rabies and wonders if this case is a waste, but Sherlock seizes onto the answer and John can feel a pulse of something along the bond like an IED blast and he’s swept up in it. 

“We’ll take the case!”


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baskerville is more dangerous than either Sherlock or John expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, everyone has been so nice about me coming back, thank you. I apologize that the beginning of this chapter mirroring the episode, I hate it when other people do that, and here I go doing it, but I need to set up my plot and the differences are important. I hope everyone enjoys it, and thanks for reading.

Dartmoor is beautiful in a bleak sort of way. John watches the landscape go by from the window of the jeep Sherlock rented, which is nothing more than a dressed up version of an up-armored humvee. The scenery is picturesque, rolling hills and far off mountains, with the occasional grazing sheep or cow. It is sunnier than London, less dreary, and John hates it with a ferocity that surprises him. 

Sherlock snorts from the driver’s seat, clearly picking up on his thoughts. “It amazes me,” he comments, “that no one ever noticed.” 

“Noticed what?” John asks. 

“How very not normal you are.” Sherlock states it like a fact, and John would be offended if the sentiment was coming from anyone other than Sherlock. 

“Er.. thanks,” John says, not really sure how to respond to that sentiment. 

“You didn’t join the army for Queen and country, not really, you joined because you were bored. The threat of war was an encouragement for you not a deterrent. The more dangerous the situation the calmer you get, you have always been that way and no one ever saw you as more than perfectly normal Dr. John Watson, it baffles.” 

Sherlock glances away from the road for a moment to run his piercing gaze over John. “When everything is quiet and dull my mind tears itself apart like a rocket bolted down, but for you, when everything is quiet your mind goes quiet with it. You hibernate in the quiet like a sleeping lion or a coiled cobra, and when it gets dangerous you turn into something deadly.”

“That’s oddly poetic,” John murmurs, turning his face towards the window to hide the red burning his cheeks.

Sherlock shakes his head,” It’s not poetry, it’s truth.”

They continue the ride in companionable silence, though John feels the effects of Sherlock’s truth like a warm weight pressed against his breastbone. It is only just starting to lift when they pull into the Cross Keys Inn. 

“Quaint,” he comments, stepping from the jeep and looking over the Inn. It’s a small building done in brick and stone with a pub on the ground floor. It looks like something from the telly. 

_“Get us a room will you, I need to look around,”_ Sherlock sends across their link. He’s already wandering off to a young man with a wooden sign that has “BEWARE THE HOUND” painted on in it. 

The pub beneath the inn is mostly quiet, just a few locals milling about. The man behind the bar is a bigger man with a greying beard and a rather bored expression, but he perks up when he notices John. “Afternoon mate, how can I help you?” 

“A room please, for two,” John says sidling up to the register. 

The man glances down at John’s arm, and he can’t quite hide the widening of his eyes at the multitude of red marks. “Honeymoon?” he asks, it's cool enough that John should probably be wearing a coat, but he still can’t bring himself to cover the mark, even while Sherlock hides his away under multiple layers.

“Not quite, “ John says, but doesn’t clarify. “Hey I saw some signs while we were driving up, skull and crossbones?” 

“Ah, the great Grimpen Minefield, Baskerville does testing up there, that’s the great ugly military base you’d have seen comein in as well. It buggers up tourism a bit,” the man huffed, handing over a set of keys. “You’re lucky, we had a double open up just this mornin.” 

“Ta,” John tucks them into his pocket. When the man is turned, pouring a beer, he notices a receipt for a meat order on the counter. It strikes him as odd, seeing as the inn had a vegetarian restaurant sign outside, which had been a little strange in and of itself. Without a thought, he plucks the order from the pin and tucks it in his pocket. “I imagine tourists aren’t keen on the bloody great hound I keep hearing about either.” John still isn’t sure what he thinks of Henry’s story, even if it made Sherlock head out to the country without a moment’s hesitation. 

“Oh, you’d be surprised, eh Billy,” the man says, clapping a shorter man on the shoulder as he passes behind the bar. The gesture brings notice to the florescent pink bond mark on the man’s arm.

“Oh ay,” the man grins, leaning his arms on the bar and displaying a matching mark. “Those monster hunters rush down here in droves.” 

John has to stifle a grin, the pink is a terrible stereotype, but he can see how strong the bond is. The lines of the three levels are thick with interlocking signs for Faith and Endurance and don’t show even a hint of infection. “Takes all types I suppose,” John says, thinking of the marks on his own arm, symbols for danger and adventure. 

“Hmm,” Billy agrees, “Great for business, eh Gary?”

Gary, the taller man, nods, “Oh ay, thank goodness for poor Henry and his monster hound. I’d talk to Fletcher if your interested,” he points out the door to the man with the sign, “he does tours of the moors, says he’s seen the beast.” 

“Oh ta,” John tips his head, “maybe I will.” 

Sherlock is already sitting at a bench outside, chatting with the man. He’s holding himself in a relaxed, sort of slumped, posture John’s never seen before. He also appears to be sipping a pint that has apparently appeared from nowhere. 

“It’s true,” Fletcher’s argueing, “I seen it.” He holds up a concrete mold of a rather large paw print, and John begins to wonder if there is some truth to this mad story afterall. 

“What was that?” John asks, after Fletcher has wandered off. 

“Information gathering.” 

“Anything useful?” 

“Not sure yet,” Sherlock mutters, but John can feel his mind whirling along the bond, like a series of supercomputers starting up. “ We need more data.” 

“Where are we going to get that then?” John asks. 

Sherlock shoots him a grin. “I know just the place.”

****

Baskerville is not like any military base John has ever been too. It has a gated entrance and lots of soldiers standing guard with M-16s, but those are the only similarities John sees. Baskerville is actually quite small for a base, just a few cobbled together buildings that look more like an industrial park. Also, every soldier there seems to be on high alert, a mentality that is usually only reserved for warzones. 

When they pull up in a rented jeep with a complete lack of uniforms, John expects they will either be turned away or shot, but Sherlock hands over a card and they let them through with a copious usage of ‘sir’. 

“What the heck was on that card?”John asks, as they make the short drive to the main building. 

“It’s Mycroft’s ID,” Sherlock smirks. 

“What exactly does your brother do?”

Sherlock’s smirk dissolves into a scowl, “He is the British Government.” 

“I’m not really sure what you mean by that, but I can only guess at the sort of security clearance that gets you ‘no questions asked’ access to a top secret research facility.” John shakes his head and files away his questions for a time when they aren’t at a top secret research facility. 

They leave the jeep in front of the main building and are instantly accosted by a harried looking Corporal, his name tag reads Lyons. “Sir, can I help you, sir?” 

Sherlock straightens to use the full force of his height to his advantage. He looks down at Corporal Lyons with the sort of disdain that usually takes officers years to develop for lower enlisted. “I will require a tour of this facility, immediately.” 

“But Sir, we don’t get inspected here Sir, it just doesn’t happen,” the Corporal stammers. 

“Have you never heard of a spot check, Corporal,” John spits out the rank. He pulls out his ID card, flashing it long enough for the soldier to recognize it, but not long enough to read the (Retired) under his rank. “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, we’ll need that tour now.” 

Lyons flicks his gaze around, obviously trying to catch sight of someone higher ranking to deal with the politics. 

John cuts him off before he does spot someone, “Now, Corporal!” he barks. It’s the voice he used to command his aids in surgery and it is tone that allows no disagreement. 

“Sir, yes sir,” the man salutes and scurries off to the door as if John had waved a gun at him. 

_“Enjoyed that?”_ Sherlock asks and John feels a brush of heat against his mind that feels a lot like arousal. 

_“A bit,”_ he admits. 

They pass through a staggering amount of locked doors, each one requiring a swipe of Mycroft’s stolen ID card. When they finally make it into one of the labs on the 2nd floor, 10 precious minutes have passed. The first lab is a large, open room sectioned off by large animal cages and desks. Most of the cages are empty, but some are filled with varying types of monkeys, all of whom seem to be royally pissed off. 

One of the chimps throws itself at the bars of the cage as they pass by, screeching at them and baring very sharp canines. John doesn’t flinch, but it is a near thing. The lab makes him very uncomfortable, which is strange because he spent time in a research lab during his clinicals. 

“Who is this then?” one of the men in labcoats asks, intercepting their swift trip through the lab. 

“Dr. Frankland,” Corporal Lyons greets, “this is Mr. Holmes and Captain Watson.” 

Dr. Frankland is an older man with thinning grey hair and pleasant, affable features. He makes the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end, and he is infinitely grateful that he put on his coat before they got to Baskerville. He has zero interest in any of the people in this facility knowing he has a level five bond. 

Dr. Frankland shoots John a curious look, but quickly focuses on Sherlock, “Mr. Holmes, a pleasure.” He offers his hand. 

Sherlock gives it a brief shake and asks, “and what is it you do here, doctor?” 

“Oh you know,” Dr. Frankland says, tapping the side of his nose, “a little of this and that.” 

Sherlock clearly wants to ask the man more questions, but a glance at his watch shows they can’t dawdle. “Of course,” Sherlock inclines his head in goodbye before hurrying the Corporal along. The third floor is mostly office space, but the fourth is fascinating. There is only one large animal cage, and it is empty and shoved forgotten in the corner. On the lab counters, however, are dozens of smaller cages, holding everything from spiders, to snakes, to jellyfish. One of the jellyfish appears to be glowing. 

“This has been very informative Corporal,” Sherlock says, looking about the room. “Thank you.” 

“Of course, Sir,” Lyons looks relieved. “Perhaps we could go see Major Barrymore, now,” he suggests. 

“No,” Sherlock straightens his coat, “We have seen enough, thank you.” 

They practically flee out of the building, and John knows that rank is the only thing keeping the poor Corporal from asking anymore questions. Luckily, they manage to get into the jeep and off the premises before any serious questions can be asked. 

****

That night, Sherlock decides they need to visit Dewer’s Hollow. Henry is horrified by the idea, but they head out at dusk. The moors are coated in an ever thickening fog as the sun moves steadily beneath the horizon. Sherlock is not sure what he expects to happen, there is too little data to properly speculate, and that is exciting. 

John walks behind them, his steps as quiet as his mind, Sherlock can feel the soldier’s calm settle over him like a cloak. It is oddly comforting and Sherlock feels his heart slow to match the steady rhythm of his partner. 

Henry leads, his breathing is rapid and uneven. “T..th..this w..way,” he is shaking, but he moves through the forest sure of his destination. 

Sherlock is intent on Henry and the woods around him, so it is not until they stop at Dewer’s Hollow that he realizes John is no longer with them. He sends a questioning probe along the bond, John seems fine, checking out something to the south. 

“T..th..this is it,” Henry stutters, wrapping his arms around his middle. 

“I need a closer look,” Sherlock tells him. Dewer’s Hollow is more of a ravine, remnants of an old cave system most likely. The fog settles thicker in the hollow, and Sherlock can see, at least objectively, how it could be considered ‘spooky’. 

The ground is soft beneath his shoes, still muddy from the recent rain. He runs the light of his torch along the ground, and not 2 meters in front of him finds fresh pawprints. They are the same size as the print Fletcher had shown them earlier, which is rather large indeed. Sherlock feels his heartbeat quicken. 

“M..M...Mr. Holmes,” Henry wheezes. 

Sherlock spins around. Above them, in the wavering light of his torch, Sherlock sees a wall of coal black fur and eyes like burning embers. The hound snarls, leaping from the ledge of the hollow to land in front of Sherlock. He can feel the snarl deep in the primal centers of his brain, can feel the rush of adrenaline in his system as his body prepares for fight or flight. 

He does not have a choice to move, however, it is on him in an instant, a great mass of ferocious canine. It takes his arm in its jaws and Sherlock can feel sharp pain and the grinding of his bones through the protection of his coat. He takes his torch in his free hand and smashes it across the beast’s muzzle. It gives a sharp yip and jumps away. The hound snarls at a safer distance, showing long fangs glinting with saliva.

“Sherlock!” John shouts in the distance. 

The hound lifts its giant head at the sound, scenting the air. It gives a rumbling growl before turning from Sherlock. It leaps easily out of the hollow, disappearing into the surrounding woods like a ghost. 

John comes from the opposite direction an instant later. “Sherlock,” he shouts again, scrabbling down the ravine. “Are you alright?” he asks, stepping in front of Sherlock, he has his Browning in his left hand, his right supporting his wrist with his torch lighting the area before him. He looks every bit the soldier ready for battle. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying to settle the rapid beating of his heart. “You must have startled it.” 

John carefully observes the area, turning in a slow 360 and checking the surrounding woods for any hint of movement. “Come on, we’re heading back,” John commands. 

Sherlock and Henry take the lead while John takes the rear. He is intensely focused on the the surrounding woods, running his light in a constant circuit around them. Sherlock’s heart is still beating much too fast, it feels like a fist beneath his breastbone, but along the link he can feel the steady thump, thump, thump of John’s heart like a metronome. 

They make it back to town at a punishing pace, but there is comfort in the lights of town and the presence of other people. “Henry you’re staying here, I’ll get you a room,” John orders when they make it back to Cross Keys. He marches off to the front desk, not even waiting for an answer. 

Henry is still shaking and clearly has no interest in arguing. Sherlock ignores him, taking a seat in the lobby in front of the fire. He sinks into his mind, filing away the observations of the night into their respective places in his mind palace. 

“Sherlock,” John calls softly. 

Sherlock comes out of his trance slowly, like dragging his mind through treacle. John is standing above him, two glasses of amber liquid in his hands. “John,” he says, but it sounds like thank you. 

“Whiskey,” John offers one of the glasses. “I got Henry settled upstairs, he needed a sedative, but he should be fine in the morning.”  
Sherlock takes the glass, the whiskey sits warm and buzzing in his gut. 

“Are you alright? I should look at that,” John gestures to the rip in Sherlock’s coat. 

“It is fine, it only tore the fabric,” Sherlock scowls, wriggling his finger through the holes in his Belstaff. 

“That’s good,” John sighs, falling back into the other chair. His body slumps, every tense muscle relaxing. “I felt the pain through the bond, I thought I was going to be too late.” 

“I am not a damsel in distress, I am capable of defending myself, I’ve been doing it for over thirty years now,” Sherlock scowls. 

John huffs, “Miracle that, considering all the trouble you’ve gotten up too since we met.” 

Sherlock holds his glass up in a mock toast, “You keep my life interesting.” 

John bursts out laughing. When he finally calms himself, he stands and runs his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “I’m knackered, love, are you coming up?”

“Not yet, you go on,” Sherlock says, leaning into the touch. 

“Try to get at least a little sleep,” John says, kissing Sherlock’s brow and heading up stairs. 

It is the most loving gesture Sherlock has ever experienced, and leaves him stunned. It takes him a moment to settle himself, then he pulls his Belstaff off and his suit jacket. His white dress shirt has a small tear in the sleeve and a few flecks of blood. He had not been lying to John, not really, it was hardly anything and the pain from before has gone numb. He slips the cuff and rolls his shirt up. His bondmark is its usual bright red against his pale skin. There is a miniscule scrape between the third and fourth rings of the mark. 

Spreading from the scratch are lines of black.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade makes an appearance, and the labs are revisited.

John wakes with a gasp. He doesn’t remember the dream that woke him, but he has a sense of vertigo, like he had been falling. He takes a few deep breaths before sitting up. There are the beginnings of a tension headache building behind his eyes, and his ears feel shoved with cotton like they need to be popped. Once he has sorted himself and catalogued the surprising number of aches and pains, he gets the distinct feeling he is being watched. He is.

Sherlock is perched in the armchair by the bed. He has his legs tucked up beneath him and his fingers pressed beneath his chin like a prayer. He is also watching John with an unblinking, two-toned gaze. 

“Christ, Sherlock!” John startles, shifting back. “What are you doing?”

“Observing,” Sherlock states, the obviously is implied. 

“Observing what?” John growls. 

“You,” he says simply, leaping from the chair with surprising grace. “We have a visitor, meet me downstairs.” It’s not a question, and Sherlock sweeps out of room before John can even ask one. 

With a sigh, John levers himself out of bed and goes through his morning ablutions. Before heading downstairs he takes two paracetamol, hoping it will help fend off his building headache. 

He expects to find Henry and Sherlock downstairs, but instead of Henry, Sherlock is sitting with Detective Lestrade. “Detective,” John greets, surprised. 

“Greg, please,” he grins, standing and shaking John’s hand. “Lord knows this git is convinced I only have a last name,” Greg quirks his thumb and Sherlock,” but I promise I have a first name too.” 

John chuckles at the joke, “Did he drag you out to Dartmoor?” 

Sherlock interrupts them with a scoff. “ No! Mycroft sent him like a good little dog to keep an eye on me.” 

“He sent me to convince you to go home actually,” Greg snarks, “but since we both know that’s never going to happen, I’m here to lend a hand.” 

Sherlock scowls darkly and John decides to step in before blood is shed. “You know a detective could be useful.” At the betrayed look Sherlock shoots him, John pulls the crumbled ticket from his pocket. “I wasn’t sure if this was anything, but I find it rather odd that a vegetarian restaurant is ordering meat.” 

Sherlock snatches up the ticket, reading it rapidly before giving John a beaming smile. “Very good John.” 

****

Billy and Gary are shifting nervously on their seats as Lestrade flips through their books. John is pretty sure the detective isn’t even reading the books, but he hums every once in awhile and it makes the two even more nervous. 

John finds the whole thing hilarious and sits back to enjoy the show. Sherlock seems to be shuffling around the back, and John is surprised when he is handed a steaming mug of tea. It`s not his preferred earl grey, in fact a quick sniff smells of vanilla. “Thank you…?”

Sherlock huffs. “You have a headache, this will help.” 

“Oh, ta,” John flushes, because he does have a headache, and it’s been getting worse. He sips the tea and finds it to be a vanilla camomile, lightly sweetened with some very good honey. John’s always been a purest tea drinker, earl grey with a splash of milk, no sugar and coffee much the same way, but he is pleasantly surprised by this cuppa. “Oh,” he murmurs and offers Sherlock a sincere smile. 

Sherlock returns the smile, but his is sheepish and makes him look very young. 

“I’m sorry!” Billy cries, drawing them out of their bubble. “I had a bacon sandwich at Clay’s wedding, I was weak.” 

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he drawls, sceptical. 

“Oh,” Sherlock steps forward, and with no warning, sniffs Billy. 

Billy and Gary look affronted, leaning away from him like he’s escaped from the loony bin. 

“He’s telling the truth, dull,” Sherlock sighs, leaning back. 

“What,” Lestrade sputters, “Sherlock!?”

“People that eat meat have a different natural smell then strict vegetarians, most people don’t notice it, but it is very distinctive,” Sherlock shrugs. 

With the story confirmed, Gary rounds on his husband, “Billy!”

“Sorry Love,” he shrugs, looking sheepish.

Gary sighs, “Do you have any left?” 

Billy shifts forward, looking coy, “Enough bacon for two.”

Gary grins swats his mate’s arm playfully, “Well then.” The two turn identical looks on Lestrade. 

“Oh, go on then,” he sighs.

Gary and Billy flee from the table, heading back into the kitchen with childish giggles. 

John tries to cover his smile behind his tea cup. “Sorry mate, I thought it was something.” 

Sherlock waves him off. “It was an excellent observation, simply unlucky. For now I think we need to focus on Baskerville, I’m going to need to have a longer look at their labs.” 

“Sherlock, the entire reason I’m here is to keep you away from the labs,” Lestrade gripes. 

“Well,” Sherlock smirks, “now I need you to get me into them.” 

Lestrade throws his hands up in defeat. “I’ll call Mycroft.” 

****

The call to Mycroft takes a while and involves a great deal of arguing, but in the end, it is agreed that Sherlock can have 24 hours access to the labs. Which shows, as if John didn’t know, exactly how important Mycroft actually is. 

The guards at the gate give Sherlock dirty looks, clearly having been informed about the earlier security breach, but they wave them through all the same. John has to wonder what Mycroft’s people told them about this mess. 

“Doesn’t look much like a military base,” Lestrade comments, from the back seat. He had demanded to accompany them after the call.

“Just all the guns and uniforms really, I think they mostly just do research.” John is looking around more this time, noting the different buildings and possible exit points. Despite his still persistent headache, he doesn’t want to be caught unawares. He can’t explain it, but something about the base sets his teeth on edge. 

They stop at the same building as before and Major Barrymore is standing out front. He has his arms crossed in front of his chest and looks rather unimpressed with whole affair. “Mr. Holmes,” he greets, flatly. 

“I’m to be given 24 hour unrestricted access to the labs,” Sherlock orders, with his customary rudeness. 

Major Barrymore scoffs, “Yes of course, unrestricted access, and I’ll just have Abbott and Costello give you the tour.”

Sherlock’s brow scrunches, “Who?”

“Our aliens of course, landed here in the sixties,” Major Barrymore grins, an expression that is really just a baring of teeth. 

Sherlock flips his coat collar, utilizing his cheekbones to their full effect, “I think we can show ourselves around, thank you.” 

Barrymore lets out a huff, “Twenty-four hours Mr. Holmes, not a second longer.” He marches away from them at quick-time, each step a punctuation of his irritation.

“Such a charmer,” Greg comments, as they enter the building. 

John has to hide his smile, rather certain Greg isn’t speaking about the good Major. 

Sherlock shoots them both a look that proves he is well aware of what they are thinking. “John explore the labs we saw on the first floor, Lestrade look through the offices on the third, I’m going down to the labs on the fourth floor.” 

“Great, more paperwork,” Greg grumbles, but wanders in that direction all the same. 

“Sherlock what are we looking for, exactly?” John asks. 

Sherlock presses his hands under his chin looking contemplative. “I’m not certain, but I imagine you will know it when you see it.” He gives a sly grin, “Give a shout if you run across any genetically engineered hounds.”

John stifles a laugh, “Ta, I’ll remember that.” 

***

With John off to the upper labs, Sherlock takes a moment to press his forehead to the cold metal of the elevator wall. His head is pounding, he can count each beat of his heart to the throbbing behind his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths before straightening his posture, just in time for the the doors to open. 

The lower labs are dark, only a few emergency lights on. It is obvious that Major Barrymore let the staff go for the day, leaving an eerily quiet lab in their wake. He walks into the deeper parts of labs, letting the shifting blue light from the aquariums guide him. 

A single scientist is in the back, apparently having decided her work is more important than a free day off, Sherlock can appreciate the dedication. She doesn’t notice him right away, intent on the small animal she is working with. 

It takes him a moment to realize it is a bunny, a blue, glowing bunny. “Fluorescent genes, octopus I’m guessing,” he says with a glance at the aquariums. 

The doctor jumps, startled, then she glares at him. “I’m guessing your the reason we are on lockdown. Some of these research projects can’t be left alone, certainly not for twenty-four hours.” 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, offering a hand. 

She glares at him some more, placing the glowing bunny into a wire cage, before finally shaking his hands. She doesn’t remove her gloves until after. “Dr. Stapleton,” she offers. 

“And what is your role here Doctor?” Sherlock can easily deduce that she is a practical woman, brown hair kept short, easy to maintain. She has small, understated earrings, and she wears her lab coat over a cardigan and black trousers. Her shoes are flat, comfortable looking with heavy scuffing from continuous wear. There are no stains on her fingers, but they are dry, signs of constant glove use and continuous hand washing. 

“Genes mostly,” she gestures to the bunny, “as you said, I deal with splicing. Bluebell here is a successful example of my work.” 

“Have you worked with anything larger, dogs perhaps?”

Her eyes widen, glancing away and back. “Are you asking about that rubbish in town?”

“I think it’s a bit more than rubbish.” Going on a hunch, because she is clearly lying, he pulls up his sleeve to reveal the small black lines working their way through his mark. They had only been a few centimeters long the night before, but not the marks have worked their way into the first ring of symbols, black marks digging their way into the signs for soldier and danger. 

Stapleton gasps, “It bit you?”

Sherlock’s answer is a raise of his brow. 

“Right, of course,” she runs a hand through her hair. “Can you take your jacket off, I need to get a better look at that.” 

He removes his belstaff, placing it over a chair, and rolls up his shirt sleeve. The black leaching into his mark, into his one proof that there is a perfect match just for him, makes him want to wince. 

“This is a level five bond,” Dr. Stapleton states, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and examining the mark. Even gloved, her touch sends spikes of pain down his arm. “This poison has always been slow acting, I’ve never seen it move this quickly.”

“Your creation then?” Sherlock asks. 

She shakes her head. “No, but I worked on the splicing project for it years ago. I had heard rumors, but I never thought...I didn’t think he actually got it to work.” 

“Who?” Sherlock demands. 

Stapleton looks away, “He works here, on the first floor lab in bioengineering. It was suppose to be a poison to remove bond marks.” 

“What does it actually do?” Sherlock asks, clenching his fingers over his mark. 

“It…” She trails off as the emergency lights flicker. “That should not happen, the labs are on multiple generators.” 

Sherlock’s response is cut off by a blinding pain that starts in the back of his brain and shoots down his bond arm. “John,” he gasps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, it was finals week, but it is finally over. I have a few months to put together my Med school applications, which is probably how long it is going to take. I think surviving the medical school application process is half the battle of getting in. I have a personal statement I am really proud of, but I have to write a research essay, because I'm an idiot and decided to apply to a couple of MD/PhD programs. Does anyone know a good way to say, "Look I know my grades aren't the best, but I spent a lot of my schooling in the military, some of which was in Iraq being shot at, and the schooling I did after I got out I was taking 25 credit hours at a time while working full time as a microbiologist. I'm smarter than I look on paper, I promise." I need a way to say this without it sounding like an excuse, even though it kinda is. 
> 
> Anyways, let me get off my soap box and thank everyone for all the fantastic reviews I've been getting. You are all awesome, I hope you enjoy this one.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble is lurking in Baskerville, and John finds himself in the center of it.

John very much does not like the lab with everyone gone. It is eerily quiet, the only sound the soft buzz of the fluorescent lights. It reminds him of the hospital in Afghanistan, sure the hospital was packed after a convoy went wrong, but mostly it was quiet. The hospital also had a habit of leaving the least amount of lights on as possible to save power. The similarities make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

He tries to shake the feeling off as he steps through the main lab. His footsteps echo loudly in the large room. He pauses over the PCR equipment on a bank of cabinets. It is a brand he recognizes from school, and sits next to a very expensive machine for gel electrophoresis. “DNA and RNA work, but on what?” he ponders aloud. 

There is a series of different labs off the main one. He takes the first door he comes across. There is a row of incubators on one side and three hoods on the far wall. He opens one of the incubators, it has another plastic door sealing in the heat and the CO2, but he can easily see the canisters of petri dishes and smell the overwhelming scent of rotten potatoes. He closes the door quickly, but it is a smell that lingers. 

He glances in one of the fridges, but it is only filled with boxes of agar waiting to be used. There is door in the back corner hidden by a row of Vitek analyzers. The door has a piece of computer paper taped to the front where someone has written in sharpie “Do not pass this point unless you want a cold!” Under the warning is another paper with the words, “Serious Science in Progress!” typed in bold font. 

He decides not to open the door, though he doubts there is anything he can catch just by stepping into the room. He looks through the window in the door, spotting another incubator in one corner next to a few high end microscopes, and a closed in hood with rubber glove inserts to work with more contagious microbes. 

It is not what he is looking for, so he heads out and into another room. This one is freezing cold and he hikes his jacket up around his shoulders to stave off the chill. The equipment looks like a Histology lab, there is a large hood with sets of cutting boards and a collection of different sized scalpels. He is drawn to one of large glass door fridges that has been covered in caution tape. There only appears to be a few large cardboard boxes inside, but he finds a sign taped to one of the sliding doors that says, “Leg infested with maggots, don’t open until dead.” 

“I bet that has an interesting story,” he chuckles, leaving the fridge alone. The labs remind him of a cleaner and better funded version of every lab he’s ever been in. There are the same traces of medical humour one finds in all hospitals. He finds fake goo, blood splatter on some of the fridges and someone had placed a plush E.coli by their computer. There is a plush yellow egg looking thing someone has taped to a filing cabinet and stuck a sticky note by with “We have Herpies :)”. 

There are the animal cages of course, some very large, that set his teeth on edge, but as far as he can tell all the cages are empty. They must hold the animals in another lab, and only do the testing on this floor.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for here, Sherlock,” he mutters. He thinks about sending the message across the bond, but even the thought makes his head ache and thinks better of it. He is pretty sure that with their bond Sherlock is already getting echoes of the pain, he’d rather not send the whole thing to his mate, just to ask a rhetorical question. 

He is digging through some files in a drawer labeled “Animal Testing” when the lights start to flicker. He doesn’t think anything of it at first, assumes it’s Major Barrymore being petty, but then the lights turn off and stay off. There is only a single red light on in the far corner, casting the room in an bloody glow. 

He steps away from the cabinet, reaching back for his gun. The hard plastic pressed into his palm is a comfort. The air seems to be growing colder and he can see a mist floating from the air vents in the ceiling. He presses his back against a wall and scans the lab, but it is a large area and there are plenty of places to hide. The red light does little to illuminate the space. He hears a growl, a deep guttural thing that he feels in his chest and makes his fingers twitch around his gun. 

John forces himself to sweep his gaze over the room in an orderly fashion, the growl had seemed to come from everywhere, and he can’t pinpoint even a vague direction to point his gun. He reaches out with his mind then, searching along the tether that ties him to Sherlock. The pain that bounces back at him is blinding and he has to close his eyes against the onslaught of it. Bursts of light go off behind his eyes and it is like nothing he has ever felt, almost worst than being shot. 

He has to bite back a scream and quickly pulls his mind away from the tether. Only now can he tell that the tether between their minds is inflamed, pulsing like an infection. He is distracted by the pain, which is the only excuse he can give himself for not noticing the massive shape moving in the lab. The beast is almost on him before he notices it. 

The hound is massive, one of the large muscular breeds like a mastiff. It has eyes like burning coals and fur so dark it seems to blend into the shadowed lab. Its teeth are bared and gleam white and slick against the beast’s dark fur. 

John steadies his hand and aims at the beast. It is a hard target to miss, but as he puts the dog in his sights, the creature seems to blur around the edges. His vision doubles, and he can only aim at the center of the blurred mass and hope for the best. The sound of the gunshot in the lab is deafening. His ears ring painfully in protest, but he does not have time to dawdle. 

The beast dodges out of the way, moving swiftly for such a large thing. John has to leap to the side, barely avoiding the snapping jaws as the hound slams into the wall where John had only moments before been leaning. 

He scrabbles on the tile floor, half crawling, half lunging from the momentarily stunned beast. He spins and fires another shot, his vision is still blurry, but he hears a sharp whine that means he probably hit it. He sprints away from the creature, his limbs feeling sluggish and heavy as he bolts across the lab. 

He can hear the rumbling growl of the hound close behind and practically feel its warm breath against his neck, he knows how close it is. His only advantage is that the dog has a much harder time gaining purchase on the slippery tile floor than he does. 

The creature launches itself at his back, claws digging into his jacket and fangs digging much too close to his neck as it rips into the jacket, jerking its head from side to side as if John is a particularly fun chew toy. 

He wrenches around to slam his elbow into the creature’s head. The impact is jarring and the beast yips, startled, before closing those large jaws over his forearm and whipping his head back and forth. He can feel his coat tear like paper in the hound’s jaws. His arm is blooming with pain from the terrible pressure of the creature trying to crush his arm. His fingers spasm and he hears the gun clatter to the floor. 

Spinning his body around is difficult with the weight of the dog on him, but he manages to swing his hips around enough to kick into the beast’s belly, kicking rapidly like a kangaroo. The dog loosens its grip, startled and pained. John punches it in the head with his uninjured arm and scurries away from it. He tries to reach for the gun, but the hound is recovering too quickly and he doesn’t have time. 

John stumbles forward and slips into one of the large metal cages, the rounded bars bite into his knees as he falls through the entrance, but he ignores it in favor of slamming the door closed behind him and latching it shut. The beast is an instant behind, slamming against the bars and snarling so viciously, gobs of saliva hang from its slavering jaws, splattering the cage floor. It tries to reach between the bars, but it’s paws are too large and only screech uselessly against the metal. 

John puts himself in the center of the large cage, looking for anything that may be of use against the monster hound. There is absolutely nothing in it, and he wonders if he should have tried for one of the lab doors on the far wall of the lab, but he knows as close as the hound was following he never would have made the distance, especially now that his Browning is sitting two meters away, outside the cage. 

The snarls have dropped to irritable growls, as the hound realizes that -for now- it’s prey is out reach. It circles the cage, back hunched and paws surprisingly silent as it stalks about in a manner more similar to a tiger than a dog. 

John takes a shaky breath, taking a moment to steady himself and pull his usual calm in dangerous situations about himself like a mantel. His body settles easily enough, but his arm is throbbing with pain in tandem to the beating pain in his head. He pulls his jacket off carefully, weary about jarring his clearly broken arm. The jacket has huge tears all along the back and big gashes on the left sleeve. 

His shirt is equally torn and blood that looks dark in the dim lab has stuck his sleeve to his arm as effectively as glue. He rolls up his sleeve slowly, the tacky blood pulls against his wounds and send spikes of pain up his arm. 

He can’t see well in the red light, his arm looks black and ripped apart, but a careful prodding with his fingers tells him it is not nearly as bad as it looks. He has a series of shallow cuts along his arm with only two being deep enough to maybe need stitches. 

He can tell his arm is broken by the odd squish of his muscle beneath his fingers and the particular flavor of the pain, it is hardly his first broken bone. His exploration, however, reveals no bones or chips in the lacerations and that is good. 

John knows his jacket is a lost cause so he ties, tugs, and maneuvers his jacket into a semblance of a sling to support his arm. The pain is manageable with the bone supported and the arm strapped as tightly to his body as he could get it with only one working arm. 

“I am very sorry about this Dr. Watson. I’ve always been a fan,” a voice calls over the intercom. 

It startles John, makes the muscles in his back tighten, his fist clench. It is was an older man’s voice that sounded familiar, but he can’t place it. “Who are you?” John growls, hoping there was a way for the man to hear him. 

“I`m just a scientist, a simple researcher trying to better the world,” the man answers. 

“By what? Genetically modified dogs?”

The man’s laughter over the intercom is grating and makes the system crackle with static. “The dog is just a means to an end. It is the poison that is important, and I’m close, so close to perfecting it. It is too bad what you’ve been injected with is an older version, I’d have loved to see the effects of the new serum on a level 5 bond, that would be a true test.” 

“Poison, what have you done?” John shouts. His heart is pounding and all he can think of is the painful link connecting him to Sherlock, a link he can no longer touch. 

“Oh Dr. Watson, I would enjoy the time you have left. Now that you’ve both been bitten it won’t be long now.” The intercom cuts off with a sharp screech, but John doesn’t care because his vision has started to blacken around the edges. Everything is going dark and as he falls into the void, only the sounds of the hound’s snarls follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is short, I struggled with the action sequences, but I'm pretty happy with it. Thanks everyone for all the well wishes and advice.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get their final confrontation with the hound, but the danger isn't passed just yet.

Sherlock skips past the elevator. Instead taking the stairs two at a time as he bounds up them. His arm is in agony now, but he shoves the pain aside, John needs him. He pushes into the 2nd floor door so hard it slams against the wall. 

He has trained his whole life to observe a room in an instant, but what lies beyond the door is a lot to take in, even for him. The room is dark, lit only by dim, red lights that shroud the lab in shadows and makes it difficult to discern shapes. He hears the growling before he sees the hound. The noise of the door slamming open had attracted its attention, and it has turned its massive head in his direction. 

He only notices John because of the sharp tug at the back of his mind. There is a large cage in the middle of the lab that he remembers from their tour earlier. He can just barely make out John curled in the center of the cage with his jacket tied around his arm, he’s been bitten. The knowledge that the poison currently blackening his own mark is now affecting John, burns through him. 

There is a release of breath, a silent gasp, as Stapleton comes to an abrupt halt behind him. “Project Hound,” she whispers. 

The hound snarls, saliva dripping from its jaws as it stalks forward. It slinks, movements more like a lion than a dog. 

“Sherlock get out of here, you idiot!” John shouts from the cage. He clangs something against the bars, but the beast’s attention does not waver from its new prey. 

“Back up slowly,” Stapleton whispers, tugging at Sherlock’s elbow to pull him back. 

He tugs his arm easily out of her grip, shaking his head. He shifts his weight, ready to spring away at the last second. The hound continues to slink closer, each step punctuated by its rumbling growl. When the beast is within two meters he lunges to the left behind a set of cabinets that should slow it down. 

The hound gives a furious bark, and Sherlock can hear its claws scrabbling against the tile, but he can’t risk a backwards glance. He’s rushing to the far corner of the room, leading the creature away from John. It barrels after him, breathing labored. 

He grabs an IV pole as he rushes past, it is an unruly thing with four wheels on the bottom, but the top was broken at some point and is now a jagged metal tip perfect for his intention. Spinning around, he holds the sharp tip of the pole in front of him like a spear. 

The hound is further away than he expected, apparently Stapleton had distracted it by leaping in the opposite direction, confusing the beast as it tried to decide its prefered prey. It must have decided on him, however, because it is only a few meters away. He braces the pole against the wall, ready for the coming impact. 

The hound’s weight shifts and it leaps into the air, jaws wide and fangs glistening. A sound like a cannon splits the air and the beast falls to ground, sliding to a stop at his feet. 

Sherlock is startled at first, before he notices the growing puddle of blood. He jerks his head up, eyes flicking about before he spots John beside the cage. He has one arm in a sling, but the other is holding his handgun, the end still trailing smoke. 

“I had him,” Sherlock states, absolutely not pouting. 

John offers him a quirked grin. “I know,” he says in a way that implies he would be snorting in disbelief if he were a less polite person. “Though I figure a gunshot is a bit more effective than an aluminum IV pole.” 

“You’re both insane,” Stapleton snaps at them. “This would have been much easier if you hadn’t killed it, I hope I still have time.” She approaches quickly with what looks like the small plastic container they normally use to collect urine specimens. She kneels beside the hound, checking that it’s pulse has truly stopped before lifting its head. The tongue lolls uselessly as she forces the cup against the creature's prominent canines. “I may be able to produce an antidote if I can get enough of the poison.” She pushes her thumb against the poison sacks at the top of the mouth. The poison drips slowly from the canines, but she is patient, catching every drop. 

“The man on the intercom mentioned poison and our bond. What exactly are we dealing with?” John barks. 

Stapleton remains calm in the face of his tone. She seals the container and stands to face him. “This poison was developed to remove bond marks, it did not pose much of a military use, but Dr. Frankland insisted it could have future use.”

“Dr. Frankland,” Sherlock mutters, “we met him earlier on this floor.” 

John gives a sharp nod, “I remember, older man, made me a little nervous.” 

“That's him,” Stapleton agrees. “He has a level one bond, that he wants to get rid of. I don’t know all the details, the project was supposed to be scratched 20 years ago. I did some genetic work for him on the possibility of splicing dogs genes with the possibility of producing poison in the fangs similar to a snake. If he followed the work from before,” she holds up the container of fluid she collected. “I should be able to produce an antivenom, but it will take some time.” 

“Do we have enough time?” John asks.

“It will have to be,” Sherlock murmurs, rubbing at his marks, which has started to give off heat like a sunburn. 

***

They work together to carry the dog down to Stapleton’s lab after informing Major Barrymore about what had occurred. He was incensed that a member of his staff had experimented behind his back, and moves quickly to have the power fixed. The hunt for Dr. Franklin, however, reveals nothing but his emptied lab. 

“Let me take a look at that arm,” Stapleton commands, after the body has been moved to one of the lab’s walk-in refrigerators. 

John glares at her, but eventually yields, gingerly removing his makeshift sling. 

Sherlock stands nervously to the side, hands shoved in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting. The arm that is revealed when they strip off John’s shirt probably looks worse than it actually is. Dried blood covers his skin, flecks fluttering to the ground when Stapleton starts looking at the gash. 

“Let’s get this cleaned up,” she says, surprisingly calm. 

John rinses off in on the large lab sinks and his arm does look better with all the blood and scabs gone. There are only two lacerations, only a few centimeters long, about halfway up his forearm. “I won’t need stitches at least,” John comments, shooting Sherlock a reassuring grin. 

Sherlock can’t return the grin. He can’t, because even though John’s arm is mostly okay, his mark is not. The bright red marks are starting to tinge with black, the area around the bite a veritable spiderweb of inky intrusion. 

Stapleton looks at the mark, and though she holds herself with a scientist's detachment, Sherlock can see her worry. It’s broadcasted in the way she holds herself, the stiffening of her posture, and the minute tightening around her eyes. 

“The antidote?” Sherlock asks. 

“Right, yes,” Stapleton pulls her gaze away. “Animals don’t have soul bonds, obviously, but this poision works on a neurological level, so they can still be used to produce an antidote in the same way we synthesize snake and spider antivenom.” She gathers up the sample she took from the hound, a transfer pipet, and a small syringe. 

Sherlock watches her closely, he knows the steps to producing antivenom, but has never completed the process himself. It requires a live animal and more specialized equipment than what he has at home or at Saint Barts. Dr. Stapleton, however, moves with the assuredness of someone that has done this many times before. With the pipet and some sterile water she dilutes the sample, before carefully drawing it into the syringe. 

“Bluebell is the only live mammal I’m currently working with, but she will work just fine for this,” Stapleton says, going over to the wire cage. She carefully holds the rabbit down and injects the venom into the thick fur at the base of her neck. “It will take time for that to work through her system and produce the antibodies. For now I think I have a solution for your arm. It’s just the ulna that is broken correct?”she asks, turning to John. 

He gives a nod, “Yeah, the radius is good. I think an ace bandage and a sling should be fine.” 

Stapleton gives the first smile Sherlock thinks he has seen from the woman thus far. “I think we can do better than that.” 

They wind up in one of the back rooms off the main 3rd floor lab. It’s a small space, but the three of them manage to cram into it. The room is empty besides a giant machine. It takes a moment looking at it for Sherlock to realize it is a 3D printer. It is much large than any 3D printer he has seen before. 

Stapleton taps the side fondly, ”we’ve used this for all sorts of things. We originally got it to test tissue printing, but we found a machine that has a cooling system in it that is better for that sort of thing. It’s on the second floor now, but we still use this one for various projects.”

She takes a few measurements and camershots of John’s arm. Inserting the information and dimensions into the machine takes but a moment before it is off. The printer rumbles like a beast, squawking loudly as it prints row after row of plastic. It’s oddly hypnotic. It takes about 30 minutes, but soon they have a cast the size and shape of John’s arm. It is a strange design, in two parts made of hard, red plastic that form varying sized holes. 

Stapleton shows John how to connect the two pieces and then encloses it around his arm. It fits perfectly, holding his arm rigid while the holes allow the wound to breath. 

“Thanks,” John says looking impressed as he moves his arm, testing his movement. “Much better than plaster or bandage. I can get this wet too, right?” 

“Yes, the plastic will hold up to water, without issue,” Stapleton says as they move back into the main lab. 

Ignoring them for a time, Sherlock inspects Bluebell. The rabbit seems fine, no indicator that the venom affected her at all. “Will you be able to produce enough antivenom? You won’t be able to draw much blood,”Sherlock asks, though he already knows the answer. 

“It’ll take time, usually we would use a horse or a larger animal, but we don’t have any readily available and she will be able to produce more antibodies faster than using a larger animal,” Stapleton says, stepping over to him. 

“Could you use me?” Sherlock asked, rolling up his sleeves. His mark is still marred and the skin is flushed and hot to the touch, but the creeping black lines haven’t grown any larger. 

Stapleton’s eyes widen. “Of course, you’ve had it in your system longer. Let me get my kit,” she says walking off toward the supply room. 

“You should have told me,” John says, startling Sherlock as he appears at his side. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just holds out his arm. John takes it carefully, the plastic on his left arm is surprisingly warm. He runs his fingers over the mark, sending pleasant sparks to Sherlock’s brain, despite the bruising. 

“Our marks may never be the same,” John says sounding like he doesn’t know how he feels about that. 

Sherlock can relate, he’s not sure how he feels about it either. “I can’t hear you anymore,” he murmurs. He can’t, the pulse of constant thoughts in the back of his mind is gone. He can feel the bond still, the cord tying them together, but it hurts now, like a splinter buried in his limbic system. If the antidote works, then the infection will go away and the bond shouldn’t hurt anymore, but Sherlock might never be able to hear John’s thoughts again. When they had first bonded Sherlock though the constant feedback was irritating, but now, with the knowledge that he is once again alone in his own mind all he can think is, ‘I don’t want to be alone again.’

John gently squeezes Sherlock’s arm, an offer of comfort as if he can still read his thoughts. Sherlock is not an optimistic person, the exact opposite in fact, but he looks down at John, one eye a vibrate blue and the other his own greyish-green. Sherlock turns his hand and intertwines their fingers, John has an interesting set of calluses that scratch along his smoother palm. 

“It will be all right,” he says, and thinks it has to be, because he finally found him. In all the world, Sherlock found his perfect match in the form of this small army doctor, and he is here, standing with him, holding his hand. If that could happen, if, in all the world Sherlock could find John, then maybe he is a little optimistic after all. Maybe, just maybe, he has some hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry how long this has taken. It has been a busy couple of months. I finished my med school primary application, and have filled out all of my secondary applications, now I just have to twiddle my thumbs until interview season and hope I get an invite. 
> 
> I also have started a few new stories, but I'm being good. I won't post them until I am done or almost done, so I don't mess you guys up with a two year wait again. If you are curious this is what I'm working on:
> 
> For Whom the Bell Tolls  
> \- A fantasy/supernatural Johnlock story that will be attached to my Intertwined collection. In this story, John is what the world calls an Angel, powerful magical creatures that fall from the sky in search of their 'One'. He is taken in by MI6 in the hopes that they can find and recruit his one. At fourteen, John is introduced to one of MI6's new recruits, an All Seeing Eye by the name of Mycroft Holmes. He isn't John's one, but he feels compelled to protect him. With something attacking city Guardians John and Mycroft are sent out to hunt down the culprit.  
> Currently 3 Chapters ~4,000 words. 
> 
> Cannot be Quelled  
> -An Avengers/HDM crossover  
> A five part story showing how each Avengers has a particular interesting daemon, and how they got that way.  
> Currently: Steve and most of Natasha's part have been written. ~5,700 words. 
> 
> The Sky Will Fall Down  
> -X-Men/Avengers cross over, inspired by, oddly enough, The Plague Dogs, but with a happy ending.  
> Charles and Erik are young kids that have been test subjects for years, but when the scientists make a mistake they manage to escape. In the process, they free a strange man with memory problems and a metal arm. What follows is an epic road trip that will lead to Bucky, Charles, and Erik learning what it is to be a family. And when aliens open a portal over New York, Bucky realizes Steve isn't as dead as he thought he was.  
> Currently: 4 Chapters ~13500  
> (I have been writing this one like a mad woman, I literally started it 3 days ago. I'm trying a new thing with this too. It's called an outline. We'll see how that goes.)
> 
> So anyways, I have been writing. I've been writing a lot actually, I just haven't been writing The Vision. I think this one really only has a few chapters left in it though, so hopefully it will be complete soon.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets sick and Sherlock almost does something stupid.

It has only been a day. Twenty-four hours has passed since the hound was killed, and John isn’t doing well. 

They returned to the inn, Dr. Stapleton having shooed them out after collecting Sherlock’s blood. They were trying to sort out what to do about the antivenom and the best way to track down Franklin when John suddenly rushed into the loo. Moments later, Sherlock heard the distinctive sounds of retching. 

In the following hours John quickly deteriorated, developing a high fever, chills, and nausea. Sherlock flits around him, mostly useless. He brings cold water and cups filled with ice chips. He is starting to develop a low grade fever himself, but his symptoms are mild compared to John, who is confined to the bed and can hardly be bothered to keep his eyes open. 

Sherlock is not one to wait at a bedside idly, so when John slips back into sleep he leaves the room. He goes down to the pub, he feels jittery all over in a way he hasn’t felt since he stopped using cocaine. The jitteriness is the only excuse Sherlock can give for the fact that he doesn’t notice Henry at first. 

The man is standing next to the bar, shoulders slumped so he looks hunched in on himself. He’s picking at his right sleeve again, fingers tugging nervously at his shirt. 

It is the movement that draws Sherlock’s attention to the black mark he can see peeking from the sleeve, and instantly he feels like a colossal idiot. “Henry,” Sherlock barks, harsher than he intends. 

Henry jolts, curling his arms around his chest like he expects to be hit. “M..M..Mr. H..H..Holmes,” he greets, shoulders shaking. 

Sherlock tries to shift his face into a more pleasant expression, but imagines he falls short. “I need you to come with me to Baskerville,” he orders, “now.” 

“W..w..what, but w..why?” Henry asks, trying to back up, but is stopped by the bar at his back. 

Sherlock waves his hand, brushing away the question. “The hound is dead, but I need your blood.” He is actually startled to realize that he solved the case a couple of hours ago. The hound was real and Dr. Franklin was the culprit, but some of the details are still missing, details that only Dr. Franklin will have. 

“M..m..my blood!?” 

Henry looks horrified, but Sherlock doesn’t have time to deal with his questions. “Yes, now come with me.” He doesn’t wait for a response, instead he turns on his heel and marches out of the inn. As he expected, Henry follows after him in a moment. The man is a collection of nervous ticks, but has the sort of personality that is easy to order around. 

They are waved through the gate at Baskerville with ease, the guards recognizing his face. Sherlock wonders what Major Barrymore told them. The man is nowhere to be seen when they park, which is fine by him. Sherlock leads Henry down to the 4th floor lab, the man has worked himself into a continuous twitch of his right eye and he stays as close to Sherlock as he can get without touching, but he follows all the same. 

Dr. Stapleton scowls at them when Sherlock walks into the lab. “I told you it would take more time, I haven’t collected enough antibodies yet.” 

“I know,” Sherlock gestures to Henry. “I brought more.”

Stapleton stares at Henry blankly until comprehension dawns. She shakes her head ruefully. “I feel like an idiot. Of course! The venom has been in his veins for years, his blood will be full of antibodies.” 

“Anti...b...bodies, w..w..what?” Henry stutters. 

“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were both bitten by the hound that caused your…” Dr. Stapleton waves vaguely at Henry’s arm, “If I can’t synthesize an antivenom soon then they very well could die. If you would be willing to donate plasma apheresis it would greatly help.”

Henry, surprisingly, doesn’t hesitate. He gives a firm nod, “O...Okay.” 

Dr. Stapleton hooks him up to the apheresis machine with ease. “I’m going to take two units of plasma so this will take about 2 hours. You will get your red blood cells back though, so you shouldn’t feel too worn out.” After the machine is running smoothly, Dr. Stapleton corners Sherlock. “How is Dr. Watson?” she asks, looking honestly concerned. 

Sherlock turns away, teeth clenched. “Not well.” He takes a deep breath, “fever, chills, nausea. He’s been in bed almost since we got back.”

“I was worried about that.” Dr. Stapleton sighs loudly, running her hand through her hair. “His bite was much worse than yours, he has more venom in his system. It was a good idea to bring Henry, his plasma will speed things along. I’ll call you as soon as it’s ready, but it will still take some time.” 

Sherlock doesn’t flinch, but it is a close thing. He had almost completely forgotten about Henry and his infected mark. Forgotten! Him! Sherlock Holmes! He had spent hours watching over John when his best chance at a cure wandered about unawares. Sentiment, useless. 

He leaves Baskerville, still haunted by the manic energy that makes him need to move, to work. He needs to find Dr. Franklin. He goes to the courthouse. It is an ancient building of crumbling stone and brick. The inside smells of mildew and old paper, and the woman running the front desk looks like she might be the same age as the building. She points him to the records with a gnarled hand. 

The records department is a mess, badly labeled and horribly sorted. It is a paperwork hell, but Sherlock is dedicated and has the sort of memory that makes hunting through the documents easier. Which is why, after a few hours, when he has had no luck finding any documentation hinting at Dr. Franklin having another property somewhere, he remembers another document that he had stored away in his memory palace for later. 

He plucks the old pages out of one of the piles he has created. The edges are yellow with age and there are a few tea stains lingering on the page. The document is a copy of a purchase made over thirty years ago of a hunting cabin deep in the moors. The cabin was sold to one Charles Knight, Henry’s father. 

Sherlock stashes the document in his coat with a grin, “Found you.” 

****

Lestrade resists the urge to grimace at his phone. He had explained the happenings to Mycroft and the ensuing conversation and the shear force of the emotions coming across the bond is giving him a headache. 

His search of Baskerville had been completely boring, hunting through offices and reading over paperwork. All the while the two idiots he had come to protect in the first place had faced an actual genetically modified super-dog with a venomous bite. Only Sherlock Holmes could find that sort of trouble in the space of moments. 

Now John has some sort of bond sickness, and Sherlock has bounded off only god knows where in search of the mad scientist that had started the whole thing. Lestrade gives a long suffering sigh, feeling, not for the first time, that he needs another vacation, or a new job, maybe both. 

Instead he trudges up to John’s room. They gave him the key, so he lets himself in with a soft knock of warning. 

John is laid out on the bed, sweat beads at his brow, but Lestrade can tell he is shivering under his blankets. He looks ghastly, pale with big bruises under his eyes. He thinks that John is sleeping, but as he moves further into the room his eyes flicker open. “Hey,” he greets, voice raspy. 

“Hey, yourself,” Lestrade says, moving to the side of the bed. “How you feeling?”

“Like I got shot again,” John admits. “Where’s Sherlock?” 

Lestrade shakes his head, “I’m not sure, he booked out of here a couple of hours ago, haven’t seen him since.” 

John looks startled by that and starts to push himself up. His arms are shaking and can hardly put any weight on his broken one, he seems to be moving by force of will alone. 

“Woah, woah, hey,” Lestrade fusses, “Lay back down, christ.” 

“You need to find him, he’s going to do something stupid. You need find him!” John’s eyes are wide and frantic. 

“Alright, I will, I swear, but you need to lay back down.” Lestrade pushes gently at his shoulder until he falls back into pillows, too exhausted to put up a fight. “I’ll go right now okay, I’ll find him.” 

“Something Charles Knight, it’s important,” John says, but his eyes are starting to look glazed and Lestrade isn’t sure if he knows what he is saying. Still, as he leaves the room he decides it wouldn’t hurt to give Henry a call. 

***

Charles Knight had been a biochemist with his PhD work in hormonal responses in pair bonds. He’d been a lead researcher in the lab that had existed before Baskerville became a military installation. Which is where he had meet Dr. Franklin over twenty years ago. 

Sherlock had learned this from a variety of sources and was quite certain that Dr. Franklin would have known about Charles’ love of hunting and his small cabin in the moors. He finds the cabin with some difficulty. It is deep in the moors, a small wooden structure well hidden in the trees, but the small puffs of smoke coming from the chimney gives it away. He presses his hand against the pocket of his Belstaff, feels the hard, metal outline there. 

He doesn’t try sneaking into the cabin. There is no use, the small building is only a single room. Instead, he kicks the door in. It's perhaps a little excessive, he could have picked the lock with ease and saved himself the jarring pain in his ankle, but Sherlock always appreciated a bit of drama. 

Dr. Franklin doesn’t even look surprised. He looks up from his place sitting beside the fire, a tight smile on his face. He is unarmed. “Ahh, Mr. Holmes. I had wondered if you would find me. I knew if anyone could, you could. I’m a bit of a fan you see.” 

Something about the way he says it ‘a fan’ lights up his mind palace, but he pushes it away. He’ll examine it later. “The venom, Doctor, where is the antidote?” 

“What makes you think there is one?”

Sherlock steps forward, looming. “You are a scientist. You would not make a poison and not produce an antidote at the same time. It is simply proper procedure.”

Dr. Franklin gives a bark of a laugh, the fire throws sinister shadows across his face. “And what about this situation implies I’m a ‘proper’ scientist.” 

Sherlock sighs and pulls the gun from his pocket, leveling it at the doctor’s head. His hand is steady. “Doctor, I would normally enjoy learning how you went about making a venom that affects soul marks, but right now. I. Do. Not. Have. The. Time.” He can feel the sweat trickling down his brow and back, the fever peaking. His right arm burns. 

Dr. Franklin gives him a curious look, taking in his feverish eyes and terrible pallor. “No, I suppose you don’t.” He seems unconcerned about the gun. “I’m sorry Mr. Holmes,” he shakes his head, “I don’t have a cure. It seems we are both men without time.” 

Sherlock snarls, fingers clenching over the grip of the gun. “I will shoot you.” He clicks the safety off with a flick of his thumb before pulling back on the hammer. The click of the round sliding into place seems deafening in the room. 

Dr. Franklin looks straight at him. There are huge circles under his eyes, he looks exhausted and...resigned. 

Sherlock’s finger twitches over the trigger. 

“Sherlock! For god’s sake stop!” 

Sherlock jerks at the shout, finger pulling away from the trigger. “Lestrade,” he growls, turning to find the police officer standing in the doorway, looking wide-eyed and frazzled. 

“Give me that, you idiot,” Lestrade marches over, pulling the gun out of Sherlock’s unresisting hand. He ejects the magazine and the chambered round before flicking the safety back on. 

“I wasn’t going to shoot him,” Sherlock scowls, though he is unsure if he is telling the truth. He is shaking all over, heart hammering and bile sitting sharply at the base of throat. He feels ill. 

“Right of course,” Lestrade sounds about as sure as Sherlock does. He tucks the gun into his pocket. Which is when Sherlock realizes that Lestrade has a gun of his own. It is a handgun similar to John’s, but a smaller, sleeker model that Sherlock often sees hidden about Mycroft’s men's. “Dr. Franklin, you are under arrest, will you come quietly?”

Dr. Franklin stands, hands raised, palms spread. “There is no need for that officer, I’ll come quietly.” 

***

Sherlock sat back in the chair, watching the slide of the needle into his arm. The antivenom is cold in his overheated blood stream. “Thank you, Dr. Stapleton,” he says, pulling his sleeve down and waving off her offer of gauze. 

“I don’t know how long it will take to show a visible response, but it will halt the spread,” Dr. Stapleton comments, carefully capping her needles and putting away her equipment. 

“Of course.” Sherlock looks over at the bed. John is just a lump under the covers, but he is finally sleeping restfully, the antivenom breaking his fever with surprising speed. 

“See, you’ll both be fine! Can we finally stop harrowing off into trouble without backup?” Lestrade snarks from his place on the far side of the room. 

Stapleton can’t quite hide her snort of amusement. “Have a good day gentlemen, give me a ring if you show any side effects.” She gives a nod to them both before leaving the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her. 

“So I can go harrowing off if I have backup?” Sherlock asks, smirking. 

Lestrade glares. 

“Mycroft’s people took him then?” Sherlock interupts, leaning against the wall. 

Lestrade walks around the room, plopping himself into the chair with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, they took him to where ever you put mad scientists that know government secrets.” 

“Ahh,” Sherlock chuckled, leaning his head back against the wall. “So they chained him to a lab desk somewhere to produce more venom.”

“Mycroft wouldn’t let him make more of that stuff, look how dangerous it is!” 

Sherlock fixed him with a look, “Oh honestly Lestrade. You’re bonded to the man, how can you be so naive?” He watches the detective fidget in the chair, but he doesn’t argue further. 

Avoiding the subject, Lestrade turns his gaze on the bed. “Will he be okay?”

Sherlock stays silent for a long time, staring at John with an inscrutable gaze. “Yes,” he says, finally, “he’s strong. He’ll recover.” 

“Good,” Lestrade stands and claps Sherlock on the shoulder. It shouldn’t be, but the warm weight is comforting. “Get some sleep.” He waits until he is at the door to add, “brother-in-law.” Sherlock’s scowl follows him out. 

With the room empty, Sherlock sits on the bed. He lingers there for awhile, debating, before laying beside John. He doesn’t slip under the covers. The bed smells of stale sweat and sickness, but he curls against John’s warm form, and finally lets himself relax. 

***

It takes five days for them to be back on their feet. By then Lestrade has left, returning to London and Scotland Yard. Billy and Gary are surprisingly accommodating, giving them a discount and bringing them bowls of minestrone soup when John and Sherlock are too exhausted to even go downstairs. 

The antidote takes its time burning the venom out of their veins. Both of them get their fevers back, and even Sherlock grows sluggish and lethargic as his body fights off a siege. After five days though, weary but recovering, they are both ready to return to London. 

John leans against the jeep’s passenger door, still feeling wrung out. He hasn’t felt this weak since he got shot, but he is enjoying watching Sherlock do all the work loading the boot. 

“Ready,” Sherlock declares, slamming the door with a satisfied grin. “Time to go home.” 

“God, yes!” John agrees slipping into the car. His arm gives a twinge of complaint as he settles. The printed cast has been working wonderfully, the plastic case making bathing much easier than a traditional cast, but it is so light he often forgets he is wearing it. He looks at it now, the red cast obscures his soul marks, but can’t hide the black left over from the bite. Dr. Stapleton’s shot had done it’s job, the worst of the spider-web marking has even faded. The marks under the bite were permanently scarred and blackened, but the rest of the marks had taken a strange black outline. 

John had monitored his and Sherlock’s marks and both had responded with the black outlining the red, making them stand out even more. The mental bond has stayed quiet, John only occasionally gets a sense of strong emotion, but mostly it's quiet. He never thought he would one day worry about the silence in his head. 

Sherlock slips into the car, the engine starts with a roar and they are soon on the road, Baskerville fading behind them. 

John leans his head against the seat and closes his eyes, still feeling exhausted from their endeavour. The sounds of a violin concerto lure him into a sort of meditative state. His mind is blank, there is only the music and the rhythmic hum of the car around him. 

He is so close to sleep it takes him a moment to hear the whisper brushing against his thoughts. _‘Where to put...Hudson wouldn’t mind...John...mad?...Bluebell.’_ Sorting the thoughts is an effort, but John knows Sherlock well enough by now to come to the right conclusion. 

“Sherlock,” John says, sitting up so he can give the full strength of his gaze to his mate. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, hardly glancing over. 

“Is there a rabbit in our luggage?” John asks, voice sickly sweet. 

Sherlock darts him a nervous look before it melts away into a pleased grin. “She’s a bioluminescent rabbit with rare antibodies. Dr. Stapleton couldn’t use her for the gene-splicing research anymore because of the contamination.”

John considers it the height of restraint that he does not smack his head against his palm. “Sherlock!” he groans. 

“For science, John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worried about the pacing of this one, but I think it's okay. I could almost end this with 'and they lived happily ever after', but I have a few loose ends to tie up. The end is in sight. 
> 
> Oh and for all my med school app well wishers, I got my first interview offer!


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is back, and no one is happy about it.

Chapter Fourteen

The Thistle and Badger is an old pub tucked into a forgotten corner of London. The outside looks condemned, windows clouded over with age and smoke, and the door is large, metal, and foreboding. It’s been John’s favorite pub since med school. 

He pushes open the heavy door, it gives an angry screech and lets out the overpowering scent of smoke and stale booze. “Hiya John,” the barkeep greets, waving him over. 

“Hey Pete,” John grins walking over. 

Pete pours him a pint without needing to ask, handing over the large glass filled with dark lager. “Howya been mate, haven’t seen you in ages?”

“Been busy, but a good busy,” John offers, letting the sleeve of his jacket fall down enough to show the first line of his red and black mark. 

“Oh, ay, very busy,” Pete gives him a wink, which looks ridiculous coming from a man with that large of a beard. “Good on ya, Johnny boy. Congrats, That one’s on me.” He gestures to a booth in the corner. “Don’t let me carry on, your friend is waitin on ya.” 

“Ta,” John salutes with his lager and heads over to his usual corner. 

Bill is already sitting on one of the old booth benches, a half-drunk pale ale sitting in front of him. 

“Am I late?” John asks, looking at the beer. 

“No,” Billy laughs, taking a swig, “I got here early since you decided to pick a bar that cannot even be found online. I had to look at a map. A. Paper. Map. “

John can’t quite hide his laugh. “Sorry, I guess it is a little off the beaten path, but I haven’t been here for ages. It’s a little far from Baker Street so I usually go to The Royal Lion, but I thought you might like a change of scenery.”

“No I like it,” Bill gestures at the aged decor, “It’s very...London.” Bill quirks a brow, looking pointedly at John’s hand curled around his beer, “So I see you’ve finally escaped your fancy cast.”

John holds up his arm, wrist clearly free of the printed cast he’d gotten at Baskerville. “Finally, yeah. Eight weeks in the damn thing, even though I could take a shower without issue and scratch an itch, it was still a pain.” 

“Well you’re not one to let your injuries rest when they should. Don’t think I don’t remember how you were after getting shot,” Murray gripes, waggling his finger at John like one would a child. 

“Heh,” John gives a sheepish grin. “Enough about me, you said you had some good news.”

Bill lights up, “Oh Christ! Yeah, I can’t believe I forgot. So you know how me and Anne got married a few years ago.” 

John gives him an unimpressed look. “I was at the wedding, Bill.” 

“Right, right,” Bill laughs, running his hands through his hair. It`s gotten a bit longer since he got out of the Army. “Well, we didn’t want to really make any plans or anything with me being sent off to the sandbox every time I caught my damn breath, but uh well...Anne’s pregnant.” Bill’s smile manages to be both nervous and filled with joy.

“Bill that’s great news!” John can feel the smile spreading across his face, wide and exuberant. He’s only met Anne twice. Once right after Bill bonded, when he was still showing off Anne and the the loyal yellow level two mark curled around his wrist. The second time he saw her had been at the wedding, and he had spent most of the time hiding in the back with the rest of Bill’s Army mates. “How far along is she? I just saw you three weeks ago.” 

Bill shrugs. “She started getting morning sickness and took the test. The doc is pretty sure she’s about 6 weeks along, but we haven’t had a quant or an ultrasound done yet so it's hard to tell.”

“Has the morning sickness been bad?” John asks, he remembers Anne being a petite redhead with a galaxy of freckles across her nose.

“Not too bad,” Bill shakes his head, “Maybe twice a week, she’s mostly just nauseous and suddenly has an intense hatred for curry, which I really hope goes away soon.”

John winces sympathetically, he and Sherlock probably eat curry once a week or more. It’s one of the few things that can pull Sherlock’s attention enough to actually eat. “So are you…” John starts to ask, but the bar door slams open with a bang. 

John and Bill both crouch, reaching for weapons they don’t have, but the man coming through the door is a regular patron. 

“Pete! Christ Pete, turn on the telly mate, to the news” the man orders, looking excited. 

“Oh ay, Paul you crazy blighter, calm down. You don’t go slammin the door like that ya great bull,” Pete huffs, but moves to the only TV in the bar. It's showing different plays from the weekend games, with subtitles running across the bottom. He flips to the news and turns the volume up a few notches. 

The newscaster has a stunned look on his face, looking at the camera, but mostly likely reading the cue cards scrolling beneath. “It’s been a strange day for tourists this afternoon. At the Tower of London a man broke the case to the Crown Jewels. He did not attempt to steal them, however, police found him sitting on the throne wearing the jewels. Officials are baffled by the reasoning behind this case. More of this story to follow.” 

The bar erupts in a riot of comments and opinions, but John doesn’t hear any of it. He’s focused on the picture of the culprit currently on screen. Of a man in his mid-thirties with dark brown hair and a small build. He’s wearing a white shirt and a Union Jack hat over a swarmy smirk. The man is Jim Moriarty. 

Bill gasps beside him. “Isn’t that…?”

“Yeah,” John grits out, “yeah.” He grabs up his pint and downs what is left in one great swallow before slamming the glass down. “I have to go,” he says standing. 

“You need help, Cap?” Bill asks.

Thinking of Anne and baby, John waves him off. “No, I’ll be good, see you. And congrats again.” 

“Ta, good luck with your mad genius.” 

John hides a laugh with a snort before rushing off, on his way to back to Baker Street.

 

****  
John is worried enough that he takes a cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock isn’t answering his phone, making every passing second seem stretched. He tries to reach out along the bond. Since Baskerville the cord has regained some of its strength, it is now a warm golden cord in the back of his mind, the inflammation gone, but it is still nothing like the steel cables it had been before. Along the bond he can feel a confusing jumble of emotions. Sherlock is worried, excited, curious, thoughtful, and just a hint of fear. Like a copper penny on the tongue, John can taste the tinge of fear touching Sherlock’s thoughts, but overall he seems unharmed. 

He takes the steps to 221B two at a time, bounding up them with a loud stomp that will probably upset Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock,” he calls, pushing the door so hard he stumbles out of it. 

Sherlock is perched on his chair, fingers pressed to his lips in his standard thinking pose. He has his legs up in the chair, sitting cross legged in the furniture in a posture more reminiscent of a toddler than a grown man. Bluebell is sprawled in his lap, unmoving but for the twitching of her nose. 

“Ah finally,” Sherlock says, turning his attention to John, his gaze taking in every detail with a flutter of his lashes. “Good, Bill finally told you.” 

“How…” John starts, but shakes his head. “Nevermind, did you see the news?”

Sherlock holds up his phone. “Moriarty sent me a text. Asked me to come and play. Lestrade wants us at the yard.” 

John blinks, “I’m surprised you didn’t go all ready.” 

Sherlock stands and deposits Bluebell in John’s arms. The rabbit makes an affronted squeak. “Couldn’t go without my blogger,” he remarks with a smirk. 

John scowls, “People do look at that you know.” After coming back from Baskerville, Sherlock had taken simpler cases. They were both still recovering so they stuck to thefts and cheating spouses with the exception of a high profile kidnapping case that Lestrade had asked for help with. John had tried his hand at typing some of the cases up in a blog, and surprisingly he has readers, readers that are not just Harry and Bill. Sherlock is a little sore that John’s blog gets more attention than his own. 

John places Bluebell in her hutch, making sure Sherlock has changed the water and food, before turning back to him. Sherlock is ready, jacket on and scarf knotted. 

They take a cab to New Scotland yard, where Lestrade and Sally are waiting for them. Sally looks as unhappy to see them as ever. “Biggest crime wave of the century, I’m hardly surprised you are involved,” Sally snaps at them, John can practically hear the implied ‘freak’. 

“Sally,” Lestrade warns. 

“Fine,” she huffs, and leaves with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

“That woman,” John scowls, watching her leave. 

“She really is a good detective,” Lestrade says with a shrug. “Come on then, I have something to show you.” He leads them to his office and pulls up a couple of video files on his computer. The first shows the vaults opening in the Bank of England, the only cause what seems to be a computer glitch. The second video is of the security going down and the gates opening at Pentonville Prison, apparently caused by the same computer glitch. The last video is of Moriarty. 

“What is he doing?” John asks, watching as Moriarty appears to stick a piece of gum to the glass protecting the crown jewels. 

“A diamond,” Sherlock comments, sounding pleased, “clever.” 

John has to clench his fists to stop himself from doing something stupid when Moriarty writes ‘Get Sherlock,’ with a smiley face in the o. “Where is he now?”

“The most secure holding cell we have, not that it will do much good considering,” Lestrade answered, disgruntled. 

Sherlock pauses the video right before Moriarty smashes the glass. “He is exactly where he wants to be. He’ll stay put.” 

“Why would Moriarty want to be in jail?” John asks. 

Sherlock hums, eyes not leaving the screen. 

“They will speed up the trial, this case already has a lot of publicity. They’ll call you to testify,” Lestrade comments. 

Sherlock turns away from the screen, his gaze unreadable, but John can feel a sharp spike of something across the bond. It makes him sick to his stomach. “Back to Baker Street, there is nothing I can do here,” Sherlock says, pulling his scarf from his coat pocket. 

“You don’t want to look at the crime scenes?” Lestrade looks baffled. 

“No,” Sherlock says tightly, “there won’t be anything to see.” He turns sharply and heads out the door. 

Lestrade shoots John a curious look. 

John shrugs. “I don’t know. Moriarty has always been a sore point.” 

“Keep an eye on him, will ya?” 

John snorts, watching Sherlock out the office windows. “Always,” he says, and follows after. 

Outside, Sherlock lingers at the curb. “I’m going to Bart’s,” he announces. 

“Alright,” John says, deciding not to question the change. “I’ll come with you.”

“No!” Sherlock practically shouts, and then softer, “no.” 

John doesn’t flinch, but he can only imagine the look on his face. 

Sherlock’s face does a complicated dance of expressions, unsure how to settle. “I need…” he sighs, running his fingers through his hair, “I need to think.”

John could take the hint. Sherlock needs to think - away from him. They have practically been living in each other’s pockets since Baskerville, really since they met. He understands the need for solitude. John gives Sherlock a reassuring smile. He reaches out and takes his forearm. There are about three layers of clothing between them, but he still feels the bond spark up in response. “If you need me,” John says, tone firm, “Call.” 

Sherlock looks down at their arms for a moment before darting in and pressing a brief kiss to John’s lips, so quick it might as well have been a breeze. “I will,” he promises, before heading down the street. 

With no other plan, John returns to Baker street. When the bond had first developed he had been overwhelmed by the shared thoughts, pained by the mind filtering into his own. Now he wishes more than anything to hear Sherlock’s thoughts, to understand what he is thinking. He knows he is bothered by Moriarty’s appearance, but Sherlock’s emotions are so jumbled about it they are impossible to decipher. John isn’t sure even Sherlock knows how he feels about the matter. 

He ends up sitting in his chair, watching the news, with Bluebell perched in his lap. He would never, ever, admit to it, but he finds it relaxing to pet the bunny, her head and ears are particularly soft. He waits. 

***

Sherlock takes the long way to Bart’s. He wanders, moving down back alleys, the hidden paths of London. He just needs to move, adrenaline is making his heart pound, and he hates that he is worried. Moriarty is just a man, a dangerous spider of one perhaps, but still just a man. The second part of their game is starting, however, and he doesn’t know the rules. 

He lingers outside the loading docks of the hospital, leaning against the wall to indulge in a cigarette.

“Can I borrow a light, mines out,” a man asks, approaching Sherlock. 

Sherlock sighs and hands over his lighter, stolen from Anderson. He barely glances at the man only noting his scrubs under his jacket, his dirty blond hair, and his heavily scuffed shoes before dismissing him. 

“Ta,” the man says, and leans against the wall beside him. 

They smoke in silence for a time. Sherlock can’t help but notice the unusual brand the man is smoking, a distinctive blend from Afghanistan. From the corner of his eye he can see callouses on the man’s hand, but he would have to get a closer look to tell if they were from firing a rifle. 

The man flicks down his butt, crushing it beneath his shoe. “You know you look kinda familiar, you work here?” 

“Something like that,” Sherlock answers, turning his focus to the man. He is Sherlock’s height and despite his baggy jacket it is obvious that he is strong, lean muscle hidden away. He casually tucks his hand into his pocket, flicking on his phone without pulling it out of his pocket. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” the man warns, and suddenly he has a gun. 

Sherlock pulls his hand out of his pocket very, very slowly. “Working for Moriarty?” he asks. 

The man grins, an oddly shark-like thing that crinkles his eyes. The expression brings Sherlock’s focus to the odd tint of his eyes. One is dark brown, almost black, but the other seems hazel in the light. “Something like that,” the man taunts, and brings the butt of his gun down on Sherlock’s temple. 

Darkness follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason the first time I wrote Bill, I actually wrote Bill Murphy, instead of Murray, but I went back and changed it so he should be Murray throughout now. Also, I did actually say that he had a level 2 bond in one of the earlier chapters, I had to go back and look for myself, but it is in there. I wanted to bring him back, even it was for more of a cameo than anything. 
> 
> This chapter was more of a plot mover than anything, but I hope you guys like it, and thanks so much for all the lovely reviews so far.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John faces off with a mad man and so does Sherlock, one comes out better off than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story does contain some torture scenes. They aren't explicit, but FYI, may be triggering. 
> 
> Oh and I was googling Sebastian Moran to decide how I wanted to describe him and some mad genius did a series of gifs with Michael Fassbender as Seb. Head canon now accepted.

Sherlock wakes up, and isn’t that a surprise. He comes to in pain. His head is pounding and his arms are pulled so tightly behind him that his shoulders ache. Even before he opens his eyes, he knows all of his clothes have been removed but for his trousers. His bare feet are cold against the concrete floor and his back is freezing from the metal chair pressed against his skin. His arms are tied with a medium-sized, nylon rope that has been expertly interwoven with the chair to prevent movement. Whoever has him, they are not a novice. 

“Come on, wakey wakey. I know you’re up,” the man’s voice from before taunts him. 

Sherlock blinks away the black dots obscuring his vision. The room they are in is dimly lit, but even that slight light hurts - probably concussion. The man from Bart’s is sitting in a chair in front of him. He’s changed now into a black turtleneck over black slacks, and the slumped posture he had adopted before is gone, replaced by the stiff backed attention John usually favors. He has a black, army-issue, knife in his hand and is lazily cutting off slivers of an apple, eating the pieces right off the blade. 

“I thought it might be harder you know, to capture you. Of course you and Jim both are useless about personal safety,” the man clucks his tongue, “souldn’t have separated from your Captain.” 

Something about the way the man says ‘Jim’ brings Sherlock’s attention to the man’s right arm. His sleeves have been shoved up to his elbows, showing row after row of acid green markings. 

The man notices his gaze and grins, the same unnerving baring of teeth from before. He holds up his arm, tugging his sleeve up to show that the mark continues past his elbow. “Nice huh?” he taps at the first two marks on his wrist, sharp-pointed runes for chaos and destruction. “You see Jim gets stupid when it comes to you. It`s my job to keep an eye on him, keep him safe.” 

The man leans forward until his breath ghosts across Sherlock’s face, he smells oddly of tobacco and apples. He grasps the back of Sherlock’s head, his fingers bruising as he tightens his grip in the curls. “You can call me Seb, Mr. Holmes.” He jerks his hand, making Sherlock strain against his hold. “Do you understand my meaning, Mr. Holmes?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock wheezes, throat dry. “I understand.” 

Seb releases his grip and sits back with a pleased smile. “Oh good. Now,” he says, wagging his knife in Sherlock’s direction. “I need you to call your dear Captain to you.” 

“I can’t,” Sherlock says, and it is the truth. He can feel the bond through his aching head, can even send his pain and fear across the cord, but he can’t send words. He feels John’s desperation on the other end, but it is like there is a wall forced between them. 

Seb’s face shifts rapidly, from pleased to angry to curious. He steps around Sherlock and pokes at his arm. The touch on his marks burns like fire , and he can tell from the piercing pain that the man is jabbing the blackened scar from the Hound. 

“Oh dear,” Seb sighs, going back to his chair. “It appears you can’t. No problem, I have no doubt your man will find you, working bond or not. We are very similar your Captain and I, he will come.” He slices another piece out of the apple, and holds it out, resting between his thumb and the blade. “It will just take a little longer. Apple?”

“No,” Sherlock says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “thank you.” 

“Of course,” Seb smirks, popping the slice in his mouth. “You don’t eat when you're on a case.” He tosses the apple core somewhere behind him. “I suppose you will just have to keep me company in the meantime. Hold this for me won’t you?” As he asks, he slams the knife into the meaty part of Sherlock’s thigh. 

Sherlock screams.

***

John feels the moment Sherlock gets knocked out. His vision swims and the bond burns with shared pain. He nearly falls over, but manages to hold himself up with the kitchen counter. He had just gotten up to fix a cuppa when the pain had hit. He breathes hard through his nose, teeth clenched to keep himself from screaming, he doesn’t want to worry Mrs. Hudson. 

“Shit,” he snarls. “Fuck!” he growls, kicking the door jam, promptly forgetting his worry about Mrs. Hudson. He runs into the bedroom, grabs his gun, an extra mag, and his jacket before stomping down the stairs at full speed. 

He goes straight to Mycroft’s house, not bothering to call ahead. This isn’t a conversation to have over the phone. The cabbie speeds the whole way there, clearly driven by what John can only imagine is a murderous look on his face. John has worked himself into such a mood, that he might have actually kicked Mycroft’s door in if it hadn’t opened just as he reached it. 

Against the backdrop of the porch light, Mycroft looks particularly haggard. It is the first time John has seen him out of a three piece suit. His jacket and vest are gone, leaving behind a wrinkled white dress shirt, collar open and tie missing. There are dark marks under his eyes. 

“Sherlock...” John starts.

“I know,” Mycroft interrupts, stepping aside to let him in. “I had a team follow him when you separated. I just got the call, the team is dead.” 

Lestrade meets them in the parlor, looking equally disheveled. “I just checked, Moriarty is still in his cell, hasn’t said a word.” 

“Why would Moriarty get himself arrested and then have someone kidnap Sherlock, it isn’t like he needs the alibi?” John asks, he’s been pondering the question the whole drive over. 

Mycroft shakes his head, “Moriarty wants to play a game, he has been moving Sherlock around the board for months. This move makes no sense.” 

John gives a derisive snort, “He’s a madman, this doesn’t need to make sense. He kidnapped you two, didn’t he.” 

Mycroft jerks, like he’s been slapped, eyes widening. “Oh! Yes we were kidnapped, a man broke into the house and drugged our tea. My security detail was expertly dodged in between shift changes. The planning involved was military, it wasn’t Moriarty's doing.”

“You mentioned that before. You thought Moriarty had a right hand man, someone he trusted to do those sort of tasks, but we never found out who,” Lestrade interjects, looking between them. 

Mycroft sighs, running his hand through his hair in a gesture that reminds John of Sherlock. “Moriarty’s network is far stretching, but he does not involve himself directly in most of it. He moves his pieces in such a way that it is hard to tell that anyone is manipulating the board. We assumed that he had to have a group of close confidantes that worked with him directly, but perhaps it isn’t a group…” Mycroft turns to John, his gaze searing, “perhaps it is just one man. One confidant.” 

“Well that’s fucking fantastic,” John spits out, “How do we find him?”

“We’re tracking the CCTV now, we’ll find him,” Mycroft says.   
“I want to talk to Moriarty,” John demands. 

Lestrade shakes his head, “That isn’t a good idea, he’s in maximum security lock-up, and you know he’ll just screw with your head.” 

John turns to Lestrade, taking a threatening step forward. “Greg,” he warns, “I am going to talk to Moriarty.” 

Lestrade glances at Mycroft, and it is obvious that there is a conversation passing in the silence. “Yeah,” Lestrade concedes, “I’ll take you.” 

***

The building where they are keeping Moriarty looks like any other nondescript, government building, only the heavily armed guards surrounding it give it away. No one stops them as they make their way to Moriarty’s cell, Mycroft’s influence in action. 

“Stay here, please,” John says, outside of the door leading to Moriarty’s holding cell. 

Lestrade claps John on the shoulder, grip firm and reassuring. “Alright, just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

John shoots him a wry grin, “No promises.” 

John’s planned approach for Moriarty changes the moment he steps within sight of the cell. 

Moriarty is sprawled out on the cot, looking bored as he flips lazily through what looks like a bridal magazine? He clearly wasn’t told to expect a visitor because he barely spares John a glance at first.

His double take is subtle, but for as closely as John is watching his reactions, his surprise might as well be written on his face in flashing lights. It’s the surprise that makes John change his approach. He relaxes his aggressive posture and loosens his shoulders. “Surprised to see me?” John taunts.

Moriarty sits up to face John, but keeps to a relaxed sprawl, a smug smirk on his face. “I’m certainly surprised big brother let you through the gates. Are you here to yell at me? Give me a stern talking to?”

John gives a short bark of laughter. “No, I’m here to tell you one of your pets has slipped his leash.”

“Pets?” Moriarty asks in feigned surprise. 

“Hmm,” John hums, “One of your dogs is following his own orders.” 

Moriarty seems unconcerned. “Speaking of dogs,” he grins,” I heard about your encounter in Baskerville, how unfortunate.” He looks pointedly at John’s left arm, sneering, “Does it hurt?” 

There is something about the way he is holding himself, the honest curiosity hidden beneath the guile, that clicks the puzzle into place. John feels a moment of glaring clarity, of facts sliding into place to reveal the whole picture. He wonders if this is how Sherlock feels every time he solves a case. “Dr. Franklin was working for you.”

The taunting grin on Moriarty’s face falls away. He snarls, rage blooming over his features. “Learning new tricks Johnny boy? Did Sherlock give you that one?”

“No,” John bites out, trying to control his own anger. “Sherlock didn’t give me that one because your dog took him, and I’m guessing, Jim, that he isn’t following your orders.” 

Moriarty stands up, approaching the bars like a predator fit to charge. “What?” he bites out, spittle flying. 

“Surprised Jim?” John steps closer to the bars, “it appears you are not as in control as you think.” He turns away, savoring the look on Moriarty’s face as he dismisses him. Moriarty’s scream of rage follows him out the door. 

“Christ, what did you say?” Lestrade asks, on the other side of the door. 

“I told him his man took Sherlock. He had no idea, it wasn’t part of his plan.”

“Shit,” Lestrade shakes his head, “I knew we thought it was a possibility, but I just don’t see why. I mean why did this guy kidnap Sherlock? Trying to take over the business? Moriarty doesn’t strike me as the sort of boss you double cross.” 

John stays silent out to the car, thinking it over. Lestrade makes a good point. Why? Why would someone kidnap Sherlock when Moriarty has some convoluted plan to deal with him already in place? “Greg,” John starts, thinking about Dr. Franklin and the venom, “is Moriarty bonded?”

“What?” Lestrade startles, shooting him a look. “I...well I have no idea honestly. I sort of assumed he was one of those people that just didn’t have one.”

“Would it be in his records?”   
“Yeah,” Lestrade nods, “they would have noted it when he was processed. Let me make a call.” He makes a series of calls as they make their way back to Mycroft’s house, sounding more and more frustrated as he slogs through the bureaucratic nightmare. He is parking the car when he finally pulls his phone away. He sits in silence, staring blankly at the dark screen. 

“Well?” John prompts. 

“Moriarty has a…” he turns to John, eyes wide, “he has a level five bond.” 

***  
The sound of blood dripping on concrete is oddly soothing. Sherlock listens to the the steady plip and tries to let his mind wander. It is hard. His leg aches and his chest is on fire. Seb had been ‘kind’ enough to pull out the knife and care for the wound with a wad of gaze and a tight bandage. The pressure stops the bleeding, but hurts terribly. 

To pass the time, Seb has turned the knife on Sherlock’s bare chest. Every few minutes he takes the blade and cuts a thin tally mark. The cuts are small, shallow, and mostly harmless. Sherlock knows that it is the equivalent of being covered in papercuts, but it doesn’t stop his stinging nerves, made even worse as the cuts from above bleed into the cuts below. 

Seb is making a new mark now, careful to keep the slow slide of the blade shallow as he makes a diagonal slash across four older cuts. Suddenly, he grimaces and the knife slips, digging deeper as he jerks his hand. “Shit!” he snarls, pulling the knife back. “Fuck!” he growls, throwing the knife so it lands with an impressive thud into the far wall. 

“Your Captain.” He grabs Sherlock’s hair, jerking him up against his bonds. “Is starting to piss me off.”

Sherlock has to bite back a yell, the strain pulling at his wounds. “Talked to Jim,” he guesses. 

Seb drops his hold, before slugging Sherlock across the face. His fist is like a battering ram, the blunt force rattles Sherlock’s brain in his skull. His jaw aches and a careful probing of his tongue reveals a loosened molar. “I’m guessing he isn’t happy?” Sherlock quips, giving Seb a bloody smirk, because he never did know when to shut his mouth. 

Seb glares at him, chest heaving, fists shaking with barely constrained rage. “It doesn’t matter,” he bites out, right eye twitching. “This will be over soon.” He stomps off, leaving out the room with a slam of the door. 

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief, letting himself relax against his bonds. He’s exhausted, the adrenaline pounding through his system can only hold him together so long and he already feels wrung out. He takes a deep breath, letting his eyes slip closed as he pulls himself together. 

Plip, plip.

Plip, plip.

He listens to the dripping of his blood on the floor, lets it lull him into his mind palace, lets his mind drift from his body. It is only transport. The palace is damaged, fine cracks running along the foundations. The usually bright rooms are shrouded in twilight, and the walls smell like tobacco and apples. 

Sherlock wanders the halls. There is a dog barking in the distance, a sound that would have once brought him joy now sends his heart skittering. He turns away from the sound, goes deeper. 

The rooms are cold, a chill like a morgue fills the lower levels, fog drifting across the floor. There are ancient lanterns along the walls and as he draws closer they flare to life with a warm golden light like the flow of honey. He follows the light, going deep into the palace. The scent shifts to fresh brewed tea and gun oil. The tattered wallpaper turns black with white flourishes, a yellow smiley face greets him in the amber light. 

There is a door, in the deepest parts of the palace, hidden, kept safe. It is a massive steel door, like the entrance to a vault or a castle. 221B is bolted into the door. Sherlock runs his fingers along the numbers, presses the warm metal against his skin. He runs his touch along every nook and cranny, letting the metal bite when he dips his fingers into scratches gouging the door, the scars of a gigantic hound. 

The handle sticks as he tries to turn it, the great wheel like a pirate ship that guards his heart. He puts his shoulder into it, forcing the lock with a piercing screech. The door opens inward, slow and grating on rusted hinges. Beyond is a bright light, a blinding, golden glow, like a sun trapped in the dark.

Sherlock steps forward and falls into the light. 

***

Across town, John jerks his head around. “I know where he is!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was suppose to be the last chapter before the epilogue, but it didn't quite work out that way, but the end is on the horizon.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds Sherlock

John is sitting in the kitchen, listening to Mycroft and Lestrade trying to put together the CCTV footage from when Sherlock disappeared, when he feels the bond spark to life. A flare of golden light flashes behind his eyes and he suddenly knows, _knows_ , where Sherlock is. 

He stands up with a suddenness that startles Mycroft and Lestrade. They turn to stare at him with identical looks of curiosity. “I know where he is!” John says, already heading for the door. He doesn’t have an address exactly, only a feeling, a deep seated certainty of which direction he needs to head. 

“Whoa mate,” Lestrade cautions, stepping in front of him. “That’s great, but we can’t go off half-cocked. We don’t know what we are facing. Jumping in feet first could just get Sherlock killed.”

“He’s right” Mycroft steps up. “It will only take a moment to get a team together. I only need to make the call.” 

Which he does. John waits, feeling ready to jump out of his skin as Mycroft organizes a team. To give himself something to do, he goes into the parlor to grab his jacket, which has his gun in the pocket. Someone had left the telly on, it casts multicolored light across the dark, but the sound is off. The news is playing, words scrolling rapidly along the bottom. 

John barely glances at it as he shrugs into his coat, the familiar weight in the pocket comforting. He does a double-take when one of the words scrolling past catches his attention. “Bollocks.” 

 

Mycroft has just gotten off the phone. “The team will be here in fifteen minutes. Gather John will you?” Mycroft says, looking over at Greg. 

“Oh thank god.” Lestrade heads to the parlor, calling out, “Hey John are you…” He trails off when he comes into the room. There is no sign of John or his coat. He doesn’t start to worry until the light of the telly draws his attention. _“Mycroft.”_

_“You’re just in the other room,”_ Mycroft’s mental voice is a huff. 

_“John’s gone,”_ Lestrade sends, not taking his eyes from the news, _“and Moriarty escaped from jail.”_

***

Sherlock comes back to his body with a jolt. 

Seb is standing over him, a curious quirk to his brow. “You in there? I didn’t break you already did I?”

“Just taking a nap,” Sherlock sneers, “I was bored.”

Seb pulls back, but he doesn’t look angry. Instead he bursts into laughter, his whole body shaking with it. “Oh hell, I can see why Jim likes you.” His chuckles die down and the look he gives Sherlock is almost...fond. “Jim will be here soon. Let us see how this plays out shall we?” 

Soon turns out to be in the next ten minutes. Moriarty strolls in looking nothing like a man that just escaped from jail. He’s in another Westwood suit like the one from the pool, this time a grey number with pinstripes. A silver chain holds the blazer closed over a grey vest and a crisp white shirt, though he has forgone the tie. Sherlock can only imagine where he got it. 

Jim walks up to Seb with a gentle smile, almost welcoming, until he slaps him. The noise is absurdly loud in the room. 

Seb’s head barely moves, he gives an unapologetic shrug. “I didn’t like the plan,” he comments dryly while touching curiously at the scratches on his cheek. 

“The plan has been in place for some time Seb, darling. Did it ever cross your mind to voice this dislike?” Moriarty asks sweetly, his words dripping with danger. 

Ignoring the warning, Seb shakes his head. “You never listen.” 

Rage flares to life in Jim’s face, but is gone just a quickly, replaced by an unrepentant smirk. “True,” he acknowledges, stepping up to press a kiss to the slapped cheek. 

Seb rolls his eyes, like Moriarty is a headstrong toddler and not a criminal mastermind. “I know you wanted to play your game, but this one is much less likely to end with a bullet in your brain.” He gestures to Sherlock, “I’m sure you can come up with something new. You always say you’re so changeable.” 

Moriarty hums, giving Sherlock a contemplative look. “Perhaps.”

***

John does not know exactly where Sherlock is. It isn’t like he has GPS coordinates, but the bond tugs him along, whispering the way as he sprints through the city. He knows he must look mad, stopping at every junction, turning his head this way and that as he tries to figure out where the bond wants him to go. 

It takes him longer than he would like, every passing moment is more time Sherlock is stuck with Moriarty’s mate and possibly Moriarty himself. He curses himself for telling him about the kidnapping. It is his fault the man broke out of jail. 

He shakes his head, brushing the thoughts away as he enters the industrial area. The streets are lined with packing plants and office buildings. It looks abandoned in the night, no one working after hours. The building the bond leads him too seems as abandoned as the rest, no lights visible from the street and no cars parked near by. 

He circles the building, looking for the best way in. It seems to be a paper plant of some sort, and must still be in business judging by the intact windows and the lack of graffiti. All the doors are locked, so he tries breaking in through the front door, under the assumption that Sherlock is probably being kept in the back and he wants to avoid alerting them to his presence if he makes too much noise. John might not have Sherlock’s expertise with breaking and entering, but he knows his way around a screw driver. 

It takes a few moments, but soon he’s in. The inside is quiet, a slight chill in the air like all office buildings. He works his way to the back of the building which is the storage warehouse for the company. The large room is segmented by rows of metal shelves stocked full of boxes. The room is as dark as the rest of the building, but he can tell that Sherlock is around here somewhere. 

He moves slowly into the room, keeping his back to a wall at all times. He has his gun up and ready, his hold digging the metal into his palm until he has to relax his grip. 

At the far side of the room, beside two filing cabinets, he finds a door with light filtering under the jam. The bond flares, golden light flickering behind his eyes as he steps beside the door, careful of his shadow. Sherlock is here, finally. 

John knows he should call Mycroft, that he should wait for backup, but he hears a muffled scream beyond the door and feels an acho of pain. Enough is enough. He sends off a text to big brother, because he hasn’t completely lost it, then he opens the door. 

“Hello Johnny boy,” Moriarty greets, sounding unsurprised. He is standing behind Sherlock, leaning close, and Jim has a gun pressed against Sherlock’s temple. 

John feels his heart stutter in his chest, but he doesn’t lower his weapon. Sherlock is stripped to his trousers and there is dried blood covering his chest with fresh blood slowly working its way through the mess. John lets his finger twitch on the trigger. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Cap.” 

John can only blame his intense focus on Moriarty and Sherlock for overlooking the other man in the room. He is standing off to the side, hands tucked lazily in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The long sleeves of his shirt have been shoved up and John can see the vibrant green mark working its way up his arm. What surprises John the most, however, isn’t the mark, but the fact that he recognizes the man. “Colonel Moran?”

“Captain Watson,” he grins, pulling his hand out of his pocket to give a little wave. “Haven’t seen you since Maiwan, long time.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” John huffs. 

Moriarty and Sherlock are giving them both a stunned sort of look. “John,” Sherlock interrupts, looking rather jealous for a man bleeding all over the concrete.

“Well, how touching, it is a grand reunion all around,” Jim snarks, pressing the gun harder into the temple until Sherlock winces. “I had such a good plan for all this you know, a good fall. Everyone loves a good fall, but we had to do it this way. Not the same panache perhaps, but I find myself growing tired of the two of you.” 

“Hardly a surprise,” Sherlock coughs out, “You even grew tired of dear Seb, even though the marks on his arm say he is your match in every way, you still tried to get rid of them. You were the the reason Dr. Franklin started working on his serum again, he had let it go after Charlie’s death.” 

Seb doesn’t respond to the news, if anything his face goes blank, but Moriarty snarls, spittle flying. He turns the gun and smashes the butt hard into the side of Sherlock’s head. The strike leaves a gash along his temple, blood gushing a bright stream down his face. 

John feels the echo of the pain across his own skull. His grip on his gun reflexively tightens. 

“Sentiment, it is all sentiment, a chemical defect found on the losing side,” Moriarty presses the gun back to Sherlock’s, now bleeding, temple. Sherlock barely winces at the treatment, his eyes are wide, but his pupils are tiny pinpricks. “I won’t allow such weakness,” Moriarty glances over at Seb, “Not again.” 

Seb straightens his relaxed posture, and fixes John with a fierce look that promises violence. 

John avoids his gaze, focusing instead on Moriarty. He can’t imagine what Moran must be feeling about all of this. “What is all this then? This madness with Sherlock?” John asks, gesturing with his free hand. He doesn’t really expect an honest answer, he figures it is exactly what it seems, a mad plan from a madman, but he want’s to know.

Seb steps forward looking curious despite the impassivity he has shown since the confrontation started. 

Moriarty’s expression dissolves into a deep frown. “I thought,” he growls, “that Sherlock was perfect. A intellect like mine, without the useless connections. Of course there was dear big brother and the detective, but those were easily dealt with. It was you,” Jim spits, “you and your bond that ruined him. Made him ordinary, just like everyone else.” 

“Just like you,” John says and thinks, in a twisted sort of way, that he understands. 

Jim gives a bark of a laugh, humorless and filled with disgust. “It doesn’t matter now, it's over, and you won’t kill me. Even if you thought you could shoot before I pulled the trigger, you wouldn’t. You’re just a loyal dog, one of the _angels_.” 

John’s grip on his gun is steady, his aim sure as he shifts his weight. “No,” John says, “I’m really not.” And then he shoots Moran. 

Jim jerks back, completely forgetting his gun as he stumbles away. His gaze on the fallen form of his mate is wide and uncomprehending. He looks like a lost child, he turns to John. “You…” He gasps. 

John watches as Moriarty’s hazel eye goes dim, glazed over in a film of white. He jerks again, body convulsing as he seizes. His mouth moves, but no noise comes out. When he falls to the ground, dead, he still has the look of surprise paralyzed on his face. 

“Sherlock,” John calls, running forward, slipping his gun away as he moves. “Hey,” he says softly, kneeling before him so he can cradle his head in his hands. The head wound is bleeding badly, as they always do. 

“John?” Sherlock questions blinking sluggishly. “You shot Seb?” He can’t seem to focus his eyes never quite settling. 

“Yes, I’m here. It's alright Sherlock, help is on the way. You have a concussion, just try not to move to much, I'll untie you.” John cuts the bonds, checking Sherlock over as he does. The wounds on his chest are mostly superficial, but an already bound wound on his thigh looks like it will need stitches. In the distance, he can hear sirens.

“John?” Sherlock calls again, reaching out. 

John goes to him, curling in his grasp. He presses his nose against his neck and just breathes, listens to the heart beating strongly beneath his ear, feels the breath brush across his hair. Sherlock smells mostly of blood, dried and fresh, but the bond is a reassuring thrum between them. 

“I can hear you,” Sherlock whispers in his ear. 

John presses a kiss to one ridiculous cheekbone. “Yeah,” he whispers back, feeling the foreign thoughts settling into place, “I can hear you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter. I struggled with this one, I knew how I wanted it to end, but getting everyone into place was a pain. There will be a short epilogue after this, but then that's all folks.


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later...

**Epilogue**

6 Months Later…

“What in the world made you think a snake was the murder weapon?” John asks, trotting beside Sherlock to keep up with his longer strides. 

“It was simple, elementary really,” Sherlock dismisses with a wave of his hand. 

John narrows his eyes at his mate, giving him a suspicious look as he probes the bond. “Aha, Molly’s autopsy,” he grins. 

Sherlock scowls, “you’re going to ruin all my secrets.” 

“Nah,” John nudges their shoulders together, slowing Sherlock’s pace. “You’re just worried I’ll stop calling your deductions amazing.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything in response, but the look he shoots him says enough. 

John stops in the middle of the sidewalk, letting the stream of London pedestrians part around them. Sherlock stops with him, turning to face John with a curious quirk of his brow. John goes up on his toes, leaning close enough that their breaths intermingle. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers between them. 

“Yes?” Sherlock asks in an unsteady breath. 

“I’ll always find you amazing,” John says, leaning forward to steal Sherlock’s gasp in a searing kiss. 

Sherlock startles at first, but settles into it with ease, grasping the short hairs at the back of John’s neck to deepen the kiss. 

By the time they separate, they are both winded, flushed with exhilaration, and receiving some haunty glares from passerbys. John chuckles, a bit embarrassed, despite himself. “Come on love, we’ll be late,” John urges, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own. They interlock their fingers, palms pressed together. The bond between them thrums pleasantly, warm and undeniably _there_. 

“As well we should be, I didn’t agree to this dinner,” Sherlock sniffs. 

“Yes, yes,” John laughs, bumping their shoulders again, “it is one dinner, you’ll survive.” 

Sherlock grumbles, but they manage to make it to Angelo’s relatively on time. The restaurant smells heavenly like garlic bread fresh from the oven. 

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” Angelo greets them as enthusiastically as ever, pulling Sherlock into a bone-crushing hug that makes the detective look very uncomfortable. “I made my nonna’s bolognese sauce for special tonight. It is the very best Mr. Holmes, it might even put some meat on your bones,” Angelo puts his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and gives him a friendly shake before finally releasing him. 

Sherlock stumbles out of his hold. “Ah, thank you Angelo,” he recovers, tugging his Belstaff back into order. 

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” John agrees, hiding his laugh behind a cough. 

Angelo leads them to a different table than usual, a corner booth where Mycroft and Lestrade are already waiting for them, a glass of red wine in front of them both. 

“Hey, how’s the case going?” Lestrade asks, waving them over. 

Mycroft gives his usual searching look, taking in god only knows what details of their day. “Hmm already solved then, hardly a 4 on your arbitrary scale, brother mine.” 

Sherlock bristles as he slides into the booth. “No, Mycroft.”

Mycroft takes a sip of his wine, an innocent look on his face that fails to be at all innocent. “I didn’t say anything.” 

Whatever diatribe Sherlock is working himself into is interrupted by Angelo’s well timed arrival. He places a candle on the table along with a basket of bread, so fresh from the oven that steam is curling off of it. “For your double date, more romantic,” Angelo winks, “I will make your dinners myself, only the best.”

Sherlock sputters as Angelo retreats to the kitchen. “It is not a double date!” 

“Strange fellow,” Lestrade comments, completely ignoring Sherlock. “So you guys already finished that private case with the sisters?” He asks John. 

“Yeah, Sherlock solved it pretty quickly, but it was definitely the weirdest inheritance scheme I’ve ever seen,” John answers, taking two pieces of bread from the basket and placing one on Sherlock’s plate. _‘What are you telling Mycroft off for now?’_

_‘He has a case for me, the lazy oaf,’_ Sherlock glares at the bread placed in front of him, but still pulls off a small piece to nibble on. 

“How did your robbery case go?” John asks after savoring a bite of Angelo’s fresh baked bread, the crust has a nice bite to it. _‘It could be interesting, you know.’_

“Pretty easy open and shut, didn’t even need a consult,” Lestrade grins. 

_‘Bite your tongue,'_ Sherlock mentally growls, before fixing Lestrade with a glare. 

“Greggory found the key evidence that led to the capture of the group,” Mycroft preens, clearly proud of his mate. 

_‘Well, even a broken clock is right twice a day,’_ Sherlock thinks even as he flicks his gaze over the rest of the restaurant. 

_‘Sherlock,’_ John scolds. He turns to Lestrade, “That’s great.” 

_‘I didn’t say it out loud,’_ Sherlock can’t quite hide his pout. 

_‘I suppose that is something,’_ John concedes. 

Angelo brings their dinners over with his usual boisterous way. The food is fantastic as always. They eat in companionable silence for a time, a near miracle considering the table contains two Holmeses. The food is filling and they all wind up with takeaway boxes, but agree to dessert as well because even Sherlock can’t turn down Angelo’s Tiramisu. 

“I have a rather interesting case that requires your...particular skill set,” Mycroft finally says, halfway through dessert. 

“No,” Sherlock says before taking a large bite of his custard. “We have very different ideas of interesting,” Sherlock stabs his fork at Mycroft, a bit of Tiramisu still clinging to the end. 

“It would be for Queen and Country,” Mycroft adds, giving the fork a disdainful look. 

“Don’t care,” Sherlock says childishly, “boring.” 

John knocks his knee against Sherlock’s in warning, but doesn’t contradict him. “Sorry, Mycroft,” John shrugs. 

Mycroft sighs conceding the fight and pulls out his wallet, handing Lestrade a 5 pound note. 

Lestrade takes it with a grin, “Thank you.” 

John chuckles, shaking his head at their antics. He gestures for the check, but Angelo waves him off. “I think we’ll be heading out, we’ve been running around since dawn.” 

“Thank you for dinner John, Sherlock,” Mycroft nods. 

“Yeah, see you guys soon, I’m sure something interesting will come my way sooner or later,” Lestrade adds. 

_‘He didn’t fight too hard for you to take the case,’_ John thinks as they leave Angelo’s.

_‘He always has a so-called interesting case to try and drag me into the government, Mycroft’s always wanted me to come work for him,’_ Sherlock’s mental voice is a snarl. 

“He does occasionally have an interesting case you know. I know you don’t regret Irene’s case, judging by the texts you’ve been getting,” John comments, with a sly smile. 

Sherlock’s pale skin makes his blush all the more vibrant as he hums, noncommittally. 

They walk back to 221B hand in hand. John can’t help but feel a little self-conscious about the hand-holding, they are grown men not teenagers. He always hated holding hands with his girlfriends in the past, couldn’t stand having a hand trapped. With Sherlock though, their bondmarks press together and it sends a comforting warmth up his arm and through his body. 

John stops Sherlock at the steps to 221B. “You know if this is the end of a date, we should end it properly.” 

Sherlock scowls, “It wasn’t a double da…” but is interrupted by John’s kiss. The kiss is chaste, a warm press of lips.

“Woohoo,” Mrs. Hudson calls, and John hears the door open. “Oh sorry dears,” she flushes as they pull apart. 

“It’s alright Mrs. Hudson, what is it?” Sherlock asks peering around her shoulder.

“There is a client upstairs, a young lady, poor thing, she’s been waiting for hours.”

“A client!” Sherlock grins, “Ready for another case, John?”

John can’t help but laugh, “Actually getting some sleep tonight, or chasing clues all over London with the world’s only consulting detective? Hardly a choice at all.”

_“Then the game is on!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is a bit of an indulgence really, but I wanted to show that the bond really healed from the hound's poison and that the boys have really settled into the inseparable pair they were always meant to be. 
> 
> I thank everyone who stuck with me through an ungodly 3 year writing process for this little story, and I am so glad for all the wonderful reviews and encouragement I've gotten. I'm doing NaNoWriMo in November so hopefully my next story will be out soon and won't take such a ridiculously long time to be finished.


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